


Better Angels of Our Nature

by Jamalyn



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamalyn/pseuds/Jamalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a serial killer on the loose in Odaiba and Yamato thinks he knows who it is. He may have convinced the other digidestined to turn against their former enemy once again, but will he be able to convince Daisuke? And what happens if he does? Can Daisuke prove the man he loves (Ken) is innocent before his own self doubt destroys them both? [Digimon Adventure 02] [Daiken/yaoi]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Lovers

A/N: So this marks the second story ever that I've published with NO CLUE where or when or how or if it is ever going to end. Truth is, this start is based loosely off a dream/nightmare I had a few nights ago and, frankly, I don't have the first clue where it's heading. Lets hope it is somewhere (good). Also, I've always kind of wanted to write a murder mystery despite having no clue if possess the talent necessary to write a murder mystery. So I'm kind of hoping that this turns out to be a murder mystery, or at the very least, a mystery, so I can scratch that off my bucket list. Hahaha! But yeah, not even 100% on the genre part yet. *grins*

 

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, Digimon, blah, blah.

 

* * *

**The Lovers**

* * *

 

 

 

   **APRIL**

"I know you know the truth."

Daisuke fought the urge to roll his eyes as Yamato insisted for what felt like the umpteenth time, "He may not have told you out right, or you might not have actually seen anything, but you know him better than anyone so I know you know the truth."

Daisuke schooled his face into a look of bland tranquility, or rather, what he _hoped_ was a look of bland tranquility. Assumed indifference was the only chance he had that his ego might remain in control, essentially overriding the hardwired urging of is id, which, as of right now, was pushing him to punch Ishida Yamato in his ever loving nose.

But be it bland, tranquil, both or neither, the blond in question did not seem to pick up on the disinterest or the aggravation on his companion's face, continuing, "There isn't anyone else it could be."

Daisuke crossed his arms over his chest, the universal signal for, "Enough, already," but even that didn't seem to slow his old friend cum NPA detective who only responded with a, "Don't try to stonewall me, Daisuke, you're better than that."

That was all it took. Daisuke could feel his lip twitching, breaking any hope that a calm exterior might be masking the rolling anger boiling just below the surface of his skin. Daisuke could feel what little was left of his resolve quickly evaporating into thin air. It was time to extradite himself now or risk the inevitable consequences, because while he didn't think Yamato would charge him with assaulting an officer, but Daisuke didn't really want to test that theory.

"I've told you, again, and again and again," Daisuke reminded the blond, purposefully keeping his voice low so the words wouldn't carry back into the apartment he shared with the dark-haired ex-Kaiser, "Ken has nothing to do with what's been going on."

"Nothing," Daisuke found himself insisting when Yamato did not respond or move to leave, "You're barking up the wrong tree." The words were short, clinched and clearly spoken in anger, but Daisuke was proud that he had not finished with a, "you damned moron." Proof, ironically, that Ken, the very man Yamato was accusing of crimes unspeakable, and his innate insistence on polite dialogue had had a positive effect on Daisuke's primary nature. "You need to leave," Daisuke informed the blond curtly.

"Daisu—" Yamato began, only to have the apartment door shut, unceremoniously, in his face.

Daisuke leaned his head against the door with a sigh. How long was this going to continue before Yamato finally took the hint? Would it ever end? How to tell the blond that he wasn't interested in his theories or his timelines or his proof.

Proof? Daisuke couldn't help the bitter chuckle that worked its way out of his chest. As if. The one thing that Yamato had never been able to even pretend to offer him was proof. That's why he kept coming around, looking, begging, trying to convince Daisuke that he was right, trying to win Daisuke to his side. For no other reason than to get Daisuke to give him his desperately wanted and even more desperately needed "proof".

Again, Daisuke thought, as if. Like he'd be willing to turn on Ken just because Yamato, never the ex-Kaiser's biggest fan, had suddenly decided that Ken was the one responsible for the series of horrific murders that had been occurring across Odaiba for the better part of the last year. Screw what the evidence actually said, which, even Yamato could admit, wasn't much. Yamato had long since decided who the killer really was and he'd be damn sure he'd not give up until he had convinced everyone to see it his way.

And, as much as it angered Daisuke, the truth was, it was working. They might not come right out and say it, but Daisuke could easily tell that the older digidestined found themselves decidedly uncomfortable around Ken. So much so that Ken had opted to quit attending any digidestined meetings rather than have to pretend he didn't notice the way a silence always fell over any room he entered or the way the whispering started almost as soon as he had left.

Sadly, things were not much better with the younger digidestined. Takeru had been the first to pull away, not that that was surprising, given his brother's role leading the National Police Agency's Odaiba serial killer taskforce. Hikari had followed shortly, choosing to side with her older brother and Takeru over a man she now claimed to barely know.

Iori's quiet stoicism hid his judgment for a while, but ultimately, his similarly innate honesty disclosed his true opinion. It had not been favorable.

At least Miyako withheld all outward conclusions. Was she on their side, that is to say, Ken and Daisuke's? Or did she believe Ken guilty? The perennial fence-sitter that she was, there was no doubt in Daisuke's mind that Miyako would wait until she was knew exactly how the chips would fall before casting her lot for either side. It had little to do with what she believed to be true and everything to do with seeing that she came out on the right side of this all-too-social equation. Daisuke had known the girl too many years now to expect anything less.

Really then, the only one Daisuke could truly trust be Ken's advocate was himself. Funny how life had a tendency to come full circle that way. He'd almost laugh at the situation, if did not terrify him so greatly.

"Was that Yamato again?" the soft voice startled Daisuke out of his mental reckoning. He turned to see Ken standing just inside their apartment proper, sock covered toes hovering near the edge of the small half step of the genkan.

"Yeah." Daisuke answered, offering the dark haired man what he hoped was an encouraging smile. The last thing Ken needed right now was something more to worry over. As it was the continuing pressure from the police had led to him quitting work, meaning he rarely left their apartment. Add to that that he wasn't eating much and was sleeping even less and Daisuke was afraid that if this went on for even a few weeks longer, Ken would wind up in the hospital.

Or worse.

Daisuke tried his best not to think about the "or worses". He had enough on his plate as it was without also wondering if or when this would become more than Ken could handle. He actively refused to dwell on the fact that he had only seen Ken this depressed once before and, had Ken not reunited with Wormmon when he did...

The digital world. Daisuke guessed he finally understood what had made Ken cut all ties and run away there when they were kids. Lord knows, Daisuke would do it now, in a heartbeat, if only that were still an option. Daisuke couldn't help but smile at the idea. Him and Ken and their old partner digimon, living it up in the digital world, free from all these headaches.

But that was just a fantasy. The digital world had been closed for years now, their partner Digimon locked away from the chosen children for longer than they had been together. Who's to say the digital world of today would even resemble his old memories?

"Daisuke…" the softly spoken name jerked him back into the present and all its inherent complexities. Daisuke gave Ken what he hoped was his best smile even as he stepped up to hug Ken tight, ignoring the pained noise Ken made as Daisuke crushed his too-thin body.

"Don't worry about it," Daisuke said firmly, "There's nothing to worry about. This is all going to blow over soon." But Daisuke could not honestly say that he actually believed it would. And Ken was smart enough to know that.

But was Ken smart enough, Daisuke wondered, to know that there was a part of him, a deep, dark, carefully hidden part of him, that found itself wondering if Yamato might, just might, be right? Truth was, that what had started as only the smallest seed of doubt had started growing, making his head, and more importantly, his heart start to ask questions. Questions he didn't want to be asking.

Late at night, as he watched Ken, his Ken, sleep his light, fitful, all too rare sleep, Daisuke often found himself wondering if Ken would...

Daisuke's mind stopped short, searching within itself, trying to decide when he had stopped wondering if Ken could and instead, started wondering if Ken would…

Not surprisingly, the answer was not there.

No matter, Daisuke struggled to assure himself, even as he released Ken, taking his cold, thin hand and leading him in the direction of their kitchen, it was a moot point anyway. The result, that is, Daisuke's opinion, his decision, would always be the same, regardless.

"Come on," Daisuke promised Ken, "I'll fix you something good to eat." He tossed his best casual grin over his shoulder in Ken's direction.

"I'm not really hungry," Ken hedged, trying, gently, to tug his hand free from Daisuke's grasp.

"I didn't ask if you were," Daisuke teased in return, tightening his grip even as the ugliest parts of himself urged him to let the Kaiser go.

Ex-Kaiser, Daisuke corrected himself, Ex-Kaiser.

After all, Ken was nothing like the tyrant who had ruled the digital world with an iron fist, nothing like the monster who had mercilessly killed hundreds if not thousands of innocent digimon simply for failing to follow his commands.

No, Ken had been little more than a pawn, his own pain and misery manipulated with virtuoso skill by a truly evil Belialvamdemon out to destroy the world simply for the sake of its destruction.

Ken had been as much a victim as anyone back when they were kids. It was not fair to still hold his past against him. It just wasn't. It wasn't fair of Yamato, it wasn't fair of the other digidestined and it sure the hell wasn't fair of Daisuke, to whom Ken had only ever shown love and kindness.

No, Ken was no monster, preying, repeatedly, upon the weak of the world in some twisted attempt to fulfill a cruel and perverted fantasy.

No, Daisuke all but scoffed out loud, nothing about Ken could be further from the truth.

This Daisuke believed absolutely.

Daisuke smiled at the dark haired man, now sitting at their tiny dining room table waiting, submitting to whatever it was Daisuke chose to set before him.

Truth was, Ken could no more kill a person than pigs could fly, and Daisuke knew this for a fact.

 

Or so, he hoped.

 

 

 

 

* * *

AN: So yeah... I'm not really sure myself if Ken is guilty. I find it very difficult to believe that he could be because my Ken is better than that. But, yeah, I guess I just have to wait and see with the rest of you. ;)

Please review! Seriously. I'm a total whore when it comes to reviews and I ain't even joking. *grins*


	2. The Hanged Man

**DECEMBER**

**Four Months Earlier**

Ken stood in the entry way, unable to move, unable to talk, unable to really even think.

He was running late. He had not intended on even taking his shoes off. He had a plan. Get off the train one station early, swing by his mother's new apartment and return the cooking magazines that Daisuke had borrowed last week, go to work.

It was supposed to be so, so simple.

Because. There was a plan. He had had a plan. He would knock on her door, but he wouldn't wait for her to answer. He would just go inside and she would already be hurrying in his direction, wondering who had knocked when it wasn't even 8:30 in the morning. He would hand her the magazines, neatly arranged in the canvas tote she'd originally sent them in, tell her Daisuke was grateful, mutter something vaguely apologetic about being in a hurry and then he would leave.

No need to even take off his shoes.

But instead...

"Did you go to her?" the query jarred Ken back into the present. He looked at the plainclothes detective who had asked the question, one of two that had wedged themselves into the tiny interrogation room with him. Or, at least, they had told him it was an interrogation room. Ken had seen larger closets in downtown Tokyo apartments.

Between the close quarters and the fact that one of them reeked of stale cigarettes while the other stank of burnt coffee, Ken was beginning to wonder how much longer he'd be able to hold down his breakfast. Would plastering their shoes with Daisuke's sweet egg omelette suggest undue anxiety? Fear? Guilt?

Ken already knew that he would not have been brought down to this room from the much nicer one upstairs in victim services if the two detectives in question had not already decided that he was the individual mostly likely to become their so-called person-of-interest. It made sense really. Ken couldn't say he faulted their logic.

Ken willed himself to take shallow breaths. No, he definitely couldn't risk losing his breakfast now. Not judging by the way these two had been looking at him for the last hour and a half. Splattered egg would probably be all the "evidence" their little minds needed.

"Did you go to her?" the detective asked again, a bit more forcefully this time, after Ken had failed to answer, "Maybe check to see if she was breathing?"

It was not that Ken was not hearing the questions posed by the one he had dubbed Tweedle-Dee, or even that he could not understand them. No, if asked, he could say that he understood the meaning of each and every one of the words put forth. It was just, when they were strung together in that fashion, or maybe when they were forced past the detective's thick tongue, something changed, something refused to click. His brain just couldn't go from perfectly reasonable question to even moderately reasonable answer.

"And here I thought he was supposed be some big genius," Ken heard Tweedle-Dum mutter. He almost smiled at the man. Thank goodness he stopped himself before that happened.

Ken's attention turned again as Tweedle-Dee began snapping, his fingers clicking against each other scant centimeters away from Ken's nose. "I know a lot has happened," the detective admitted, "But I need you to focus for me, okay?" Ken was almost sure he nodded in response.

"You saw her on the floor," Tweedle-Dee stated, "Did you go to her?"

"She was dead." Ken's monotone remark shocked him even more than it seemed to shock the detectives.

"You're sure?" this time it was Tweedle-Dum who asked. Ken nodded. "Because I've got to tell 'ya," he continued, his face miming a look of no-doubt practiced disbelief, "I've been doing this job for nearly 20 years. I've seen a lot of dead bodies. I walk into my mom's apartment and see her lying, what'd you say," he looked to the other detective for conformation, "twenty, twenty-five feet away?" Tweedle-Dee nodded. "I wouldn't trust myself to know if she was still breathing. Maybe barely alive? I see my mom lying on the ground, hurt," he continued, "I go to her. I mean," he raked a hand through his greasy hair, pinning Ken with his eyes, "she's my mom for fuck's sake."

Ken nodded his agreement. It wasn't that he didn't understand what the detective was saying or even, had their situations been reversed, what he was thinking. He did. But at the time, he had not been thinking rationally. Ken wasn't even sure he was capable of thinking rationally even now.

"So you didn't go over to her body." Tweedle-Dee confirmed. Now they were both trying to stare holes into his brain. Ken shook his head, uncertain, thinking.

"I don't know," he admitted after a nearly thirty second pause, "I don't think I did."

"You don't _think_ you did?" Tweedle-Dum threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, nearly whacking Tweedle-Dee in the process. "Let's get this straight," he insisted, "Did you or did you not go up to your mother's body?" He paused for Ken to answer, but Ken did not know what to tell the man. After a few long seconds of silence, Tweedle-Dum had had enough, "For crying out loud," he complained, "This isn't ancient history we're talking about here. It's not even been four hours! Did you or did you not go over to your mother?"

Ken closed his eyes, trying to focus his mind back to the events of that morning, but, try as he might, there was not anything there. He could recall what he ate for breakfast. He could even vaguely recall what he had been dreaming about when Daisuke's alarm had woken him up. Ken remembered that the station had been more crowded than usual that morning and that there had been a foreign man sitting in the back of the train car. He remembered he had opted to stand and that he had gotten off one stop early. He remembered his plan. Knock on the door, go inside, hand her the bag, apologize, leave.

But after that: fog. Nothing but grey, rolling fog. Until the uniformed officer had walked him out of the apartment. And then some other uniformed officer had driven him back to the station and left him upstairs with victim services. Then there had been a knock on the door and Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum had taken him down to this interrogation closet and introduced themselves as the detectives that would be handling his mother's case.

"I don't know," Ken answered, opening his eyes again, comforted, almost, in a way, by this tiny cocoon of a room, "I just don't know."

Tweedle-Dee sighed. "Okay," he held a calming hand up in Tweedle-Dum's direction before continuing, "Let's start back over at the beginning."

Tweedle-Dee smiled at Ken. That's good, Ken thought, he wants me to trust him. Ken offered the detective a small smile in return, thinking, and I want him to think that I do.

"Tell me a little about your mother."

Ken thought. Facts he knew. But the detective wasn't looking for facts. He wanted details, personal details, the kind of personal details that only sons, family members were supposed to know. He wanted to know what sort of woman Rika Ichijouji had been, what she liked, who her friends were, what she did for fun on her days off.

Problem was, Ken had no idea.

It wasn't that he didn't love his mother. They just did not have that sort of relationship. Ever. Not even when he had been a child. Not even before Osamu had died.

Theirs had always been an oddly formal relationship. A relationship based solely on society's defined roles of what was a "mother" and what was a "son". And, frankly, that was the way Ken had preferred it. He had never bothered to wonder if that was what his mother had wanted or if, maybe, she had hoped for something more...familial? Loving?

He had been beyond surprised when she first mentioned wanting to move to Odaiba to be closer to him and Daisuke. It never occurred to him that she might leave the little apartment in Tamachi where he had grown up, where she, as far as he had ever known her, had always lived whatever life it was she lived.

"She worked part time at the flower shop just around the corner from the W station," Ken hoped that what details he could supply would satisfy them, "She didn't have a lot of friends that she ever told me about," he hedged, "but she always got on well with people, I guess." Ken shook his head, "You should really ask Daisuke. He and Mother…" Ken stopped himself before finishing that thought.

"Daisuke," Tweedle-Dee repeated, flipping through his note pad, page, page, another page, "Daisuke... It says here you had stopped by your mother's apartment to return some magazines that 'Daisuke' had borrowed." The detective glanced up and Ken nodded his agreement. "And who is Daisuke?"

Ken knew the question was going to come up sooner rather than later. He should have been more prepared. Still, he found himself hesitating.

"Daisuke is..." Ken did not understand why he always found this so difficult to explain. Daisuke never seemed to have a problem telling anyone, their friends, the landlord, even the exterminator who or what Ken was to him. But Ken had never been even remotely as comfortable. He would jokingly tell Daisuke that he was just too damn Japanese, that it was Daisuke who was the odd one, and Daisuke would laugh, but Ken knew that the truth was that his hesitation invariably hurt the curly headed man. Ken's compromise had been to become adept at some of the more benign euphemisms. He went with one now, "Daisuke is my roommate."

"Roommate?" Tweedle-Dum's eyebrows all but shot off his face. "Your _roommate_ knows your mother better than you?" he asked incredulously. Ken ignored the question, refusing to even glance in Tweedle-Dum's direction. He had already decided while neither detective was to be truly trusted, he need not be particularly subtle about his dislike of the overtly obstinate Tweedle-Dum. After all, it would give Tweedle-Dee reason to hope their good-cop/bad-cop shtick was working.

"So..." Tweedle-Dum continued when it became clear that Ken had no intention of answering, "When you say ' _roomate_ ', I'm just gonna go ahead and assume the two of you are fuck buddies." He leaned in closer, trying to get some reaction out of Ken, but none was forthcoming. "Isn't that what it means when two grown men are _roomates_? Eh?"

Ken glanced over at Tweedle-Dee, wondering if, when the man would step in. Did he really think Ken might be stupid enough to take Tweedle-Dum's bait? Was he holding out in the hope that the right pejorative might push Ken into suddenly cracking? Please. Ken had been ignoring taunts and ridicule since childhood. He had learned long ago that nothing frustrated a bully so much as being ignored.

"Be honest with me, Ichijouji," and it was obvious that Tweedle-Dum did not like being ignored, "Do you hate all women? Or just your mom?" he elbowed Tweedle-Dee, tossing his chin in Ken's direction with a look that asked, 'can you believe this guy?' "Is that why you like to fuck boys? Because mean mommy was mean to you?"

Tweedle-Dee still did not comment, but he did offer Ken a faintly chagrined roll of the eyes at Tweedle-Dum's stunted foray into pop psychology. 'See?' his look tried to say, 'I'm not like this Neanderthal. You can trust me. I won't judge you for being some fudge packing fag. Really. You can tell me everything. I'm on _your_ side.'

Thankfully Ken's childhood had also taught him the art of hiding his contempt for idiots who thought they could manipulate him into thinking they were actually his friends. So he brought out the noncommittal half smile that heretofore had been reserved for news correspondents, overly familiar teachers and excessively eager fan-girls. It would, no doubt, work just as well on half-rate detectives.

"So," Tweedle-Dee decided to continue when it became obvious that no amount of awkward silence would entice Ken into responding, "You stopped by your mother's apartment to return the magazines that your roommate, 'Daisuke', had borrowed." Ken nodded his agreement.

"Does your mother live alone?" Ken nodded again.

"No husband? Boyfriend?" Ken shook his head.

"What happened to your father? Divorce? Is that why she'd only lived at that address for a few months?"

Ken shook his head again, but it was clear that Tweedle-Dee wouldn't continue without more details so he answered, "My father's dead."

Both detectives pretended to be surprised at his answer, but Ken doubted they truly had been. His father's death was a matter of public record. It had likely been one of the first things that had come up when they pulled his mother's information. They had only wanted to see his reaction, to see if he'd lie. But why would he? His father had died of natural causes, in the office he'd worked at for more than 40 years, surrounded by coworkers.

"When did he die?"

"Eight months ago," Ken had been ready for that one. Maybe his brain was finally starting to focus again, "At work. He had a heart attack. He was dead before the ambulance could show up."

"And how did your mother handle it?" Tweedle-Dee pressed.

"She was sad," Ken shrugged, "I don't think she'd ever really thought about what she would do when he was gone. My mother…" Ken trailed off, trying to think of the best way to put what he was trying to say without sounding cold, unloving, "My mother was always the sort to always put others before herself. She wasn't the sort to talk about herself. She put her everything into caring for my father and my brother and myself."

Tweedle-Dee began flipping through his notebook again, "You have a brother?" he asked, "What's his name and where does he live?"

"Osamu," Ken answered simply, "He's dead."

"Also!?" Tweedle-Dum scoffed. This time Ken heard the thunk of Tweedle-Dee's boot connecting firmly with Tweedle-Dum's shin. 'Shut-up', the look Tweedle-Dee shot Tweedle-Dum seemed to say, 'I've finally got the damn poof talking. The last thing I need is for you to send him into another sulk'.

"When?" was all Tweedle-Dee said out loud, turning his attention back to Ken, his pen poised over the notepad.

"Twenty-one years ago in March."

"How?" the detective was too busy scribbling in his notepad to even look up.

Ken sighed. He wanted to tell the would-be gumshoe to just go look it up and to leave him the hell alone already. He'd spent years trying to put that day out of his mind. Now these idiots had to go and drag everything back up. And for what possible reason? To see what he'd say? To pass judgment on his reaction?

"He was hit by a city bus. He was walking me home from school and he was hit by a bus." That second part came out a tad more forcefully than Ken had intended. Tweedle-Dee seemed to catch that.

"You were with him?" he asked, though his tone suggested that that wasn't really his question.

Ken sighed. "I was five," was his only answer.

Tweedle-Dee nodded, but something about the way his eyes narrowed just ever so slightly made Ken angry. Tweedle-Dee must have sensed this because he offered a vaguely apologetic smile before quickly moving on.

"Was there a settlement in your brother's case?" He asked.

Ken shook his head in confusion, "I—I don't know," he answered, "I was just a child. My parents..." Ken trailed off, thinking, brow furrowed for a moment before answering, "Probably. I guess. We never talked about it."

"It?" Tweedle-Dee pressed, "The settlement? The accident?"

It took every ounce of will power for Ken not to toss his hands in the air in frustration. How do you explain to someone who's never experienced his kind of family that it wasn't just that they never talked about this one thing or that one thing? They never talked about ANYTHING, ever.

Not once could Ken remember sitting down and having a real, honest talk with either his mother or his father. The Ichijouji house had always been a silent one and Ken didn't dare say, but he liked it that way. Feelings, emotions, opinions, beliefs? What good did they do? Honesty? What family's relationship had _ever_ been improved by _honesty_?

Ken sighed, "Osamu," he finally answered, for lack of a better option, "We didn't talk about Osamu."

There was a long silence as the detectives considered Ken's statement. Finally Tweedle-Dee shrugged, turning to Tweedle-Dum to remark, "If nothing else, that explains where she got all that money."

Ken was getting tired of these silly games. "My mother didn't have a lot of money," he assured the detectives. "Even after selling the old apartment, she still was having to work part-time." Truth was, Daisuke and he had even started discussing moving her in with them.

Or rather, Daisuke had started discussing it and Ken had been trying his best not to let his annoyance show. Ken mentally chastised himself for small bit of pleasure he felt when he realized his mother's death meant he would no longer have to struggle to come up with reasons why now wouldn't be a good time to invite his mother into his and Daisuke's home. That conversation was officially over. Finally.

Ken's mind was jerked back to the present once again, this time by Tweedle-Dum's bemused chuckle.

"On the contrary, Ichijouji," Tweedle-Dum grinned, leaning forward, elbows braced against the table with his chin resting on his upturned palm even as his eyes watched, eager, for Ken's response, oblivious to the stench of stale cigarettes wafted from every pore of his body. "You just became a very, very rich man."

 

That was when Ken felt his gut plummet.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *


	3. Judgement

**JANUARY**

Yamato rubbed his eyes, hoping, maybe even praying, that all the answers that he was certain were contained, somewhere, within the case files spread across his desk would suddenly reveal themselves. But, after countless hours spent reading and rereading, going over and over every little documented detail, Yamato knew it would never be that easy.

He picked up the latest file, pushing the others away so he could have room to focus. Ichijouji Rika. Yamato sighed. What had been the most difficult case of his short career had, recently, become that much more difficult.

Yamato tried to remember how things had even gotten to this point. If he were being honest, he could trace it back to his own father.  The older man had been worried that, despite having devoted himself to music and his band through middle school and even high school, Yamato still did not have much to show for his effort.

Add to that that Yamato wasn’t exactly stupid. He could understand that the odds that he and they guys would ever have anything to show for all their work, or that they’d ever have the chance to play more than the occasional party or school festival were minimal, at best.

So Yamato allowed himself to be talked into focusing on something more practical. After all, his father had made it all sound so reasonable at the time. It would be just four or five years of college. He could still practice in his spare time, sure, but he would concentrate on earning a degree that could, if nothing else, support him if, _when_ , he decided to refocus his efforts on his dream of being a musician.

Yamato thought about his old guitar, tucked inside a closet in the apartment he rarely saw, still braced in its stand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even picked it up. Would he remember any of their old set pieces? Unlikely. Certainly not in their entirety. Truthfully, Yamato doubted he would be able to even get the damned thing in tune now.

The bitter part of Yamato wondered if the reason his father had been so insistent that Yamato’s passion for his music would withstand the stress of full-time school and eventually a career was precisely because he knew that it could not. In the end, it was Yamato who had been well played.

Still, Yamato could admit that he did not dislike the work he did. Sure, the hours sucked, but the work itself was fascinating. Yamato had quickly discovered a talent for solving tricky cases, thanks to the same persistence that had kept him picking at his guitar for hours on end. It was how he had managed to advance as quickly as he had. Yamato had sat for three service exams in as many years and had aced them all. Then he had been put on a task force charged with hunting down a serial rapist. He had studied the cases intensely, clocked massive amounts of unpaid overtime and eventually worked up a profile that had been instrumental in catching the asshole barely one month later.

That success had led to another opportunity, then another and another until, quite to his own surprise, he had been offered the chance to lead a small group of detectives looking into what had, at the time, been three eerily similar murders that had all occurred in or very near to the Odaiba area.

It had been one of his proudest moments, after saving the Digital World.

But eight months and four more murders later, Yamato, mired in the case from hell, found himself starting to wonder just who it was he had managed to piss off.

And then this one. Ichijouji Rika.

It did not click at first. The almost clockwork regularity of the strangulation murders had everyone in the police force on edge and so Yamato, and his now growing taskforce were usually notified within hours of any potential new cases. Yamato knew these cases better than anyone and so he often took it upon himself to go down to the station in question to pull a copy of the case file and to speak to the detectives working the case.

“This probably isn’t one of yours,” Detective Sakamoto had warned him over the phone that morning before hedging, “Though the MO… it looks just like that case I pulled three months ago.”

When Yamato had questioned why Sakamoto thought this might not be one of the Odaiba serial murder cases, he had been told that, as of then, the evidence seemed to be pointing to the woman’s only living son. Yamato agreed that that didn’t jive with what they had seen in the previous cases.

The man Yamato believed himself to be looking for was smart, exceptionally smart, and he was a planner. Everything about the seven previous murders said that these were not random acts of violence, crimes of passion or murders of convenience. No, these murders had been _designed_ down to their very last detail.

Yamato’s man wasn’t stupid enough to murder someone that would be easily traced back to himself, or so Yamato believed.

Still, Yamato wanted to see the actual evidence. He could not afford to leave any stone unturned. The longer this case went unsolved, the more uneasy the public became and the more uneasy the public became, the harder the director’s life became. And the harder the director’s life became, the more _miserable_ he made Yamato.

Shit really did have a tendency to roll down hill.

It was that fast approaching ball of shit that Yamato had been thinking about when he’d walked into the Odaiba police station that day and saw Daisuke, all-but shouting at the poor newbie tasked with staffing the front desk. The red-headed man was beyond irate, threatening to climb over the desk and take whatever it was he wanted himself.

At first, Yamato found himself wondering why Daisuke was even there. The Odaiba police station was such a strange place for the younger man to be. In point of fact, it was quite possibly the one place Yamato had never considered he might run into the other keeper of friendship.

But then had it clicked. Ichijouji Rika.

Ichijouji.

Of course. It was a far from common name. Yamato should have realized it sooner, much sooner. He was so busy rebuking himself over the slip that he failed to notice Daisuke turn away from the desk, his eyes catching Yamato where he still stood, just inside the front door.

“Yamato!” The red headed shouted his name from across the station lobby.

“Oh thank god!” Daisuke sighed, continuing, “Finally, someone with half a brain.” He shot a dirty look at the poor policewoman behind the desk before hurrying over to where Yamato still stood. “You have to help,” he pleaded.

“What’s going on?” Yamato asked, though, truthfully, he already knew the answer.

For a moment, Daisuke seemed lost for words, unsure where to begin. Finally he just said, “Mrs. Ichijouji, Ken’s mom…” before trailing off again. Yamato could easily see that the younger man was fighting back his emotions.

After a few deep breaths Daisuke tried again, “It was bad,” he told Yamato, “They, you know, the cops brought Ken here this morning.” Yamato nodded when the other man did not continue right away. “And—and then…” Daisuke paused again before finishing, “I don’t know.” Daisuke shot another dirty look towards the desk clerk who was doing her level best to appear desperately busy, “ **No one** ” he yelled before turning back to Yamato and continuing in a lower tone, **“** wants to tell me what’s going on!”

Yamato’s mind immediately flitted back to what Sakamoto had said over the telephone about the dead woman’s son and his own suspicions. But even if sharing such details with the would-be suspect’s significant other wasn’t unethical, or even just downright stupid, Yamato knew intuitively that that was something he could not bring himself to share with Daisuke.

No, there was only one thing that Yamato understood for certain in that moment. He needed to protect Daisuke. Protect him from what, Yamato was not quite sure. Maybe it was from whatever harsh reality might very well be in the process of playing itself out. Maybe it was from the truth of whom or what Ken really was. Maybe it was from Yamato’s own half hopes and half fears. No matter what the actual motive, Yamato could see no reason why he should worry or upset the younger man more than absolutely necessary.

This was not an unfamiliar situation for Yamato. Truth was, when they had all been younger, their attentions focused on their fight for the digital world, Yamato had found it easy to delude himself into believing that whatever it was he had felt for Daisuke stemmed from his overdeveloped need to protect all things weaker, younger, more genuine or innocent. That is to say, from the same urge that had often left his real-life little brother feeling more than slightly suffocated.

The same urge that, perhaps all too predictably, had led to his becoming an officer, that allowed him to excel in his work and that had landed him in this difficult position in the first place.

It had taken years for Yamato to come to understand that this, too, was part of the gift, the curse, of the crest of friendship.

By the time he had understood what, exactly, his feelings for Daisuke actually were, the younger man had already moved in with Ken and, much to Yamato’s chagrin, that particular door seemed shut, irrevocably.

Still, knowing something wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly happen had not done much, if anything, to change how he actually felt. Sure, Yamato had done his best to treat Daisuke as only another one of his younger brother’s contemporaries. More importantly, he had done his best to treat Ken as if he hadn’t purposefully stolen something very valuable right out from underneath Yamato’s nose.

But there were times when Yamato feared his true feelings had betrayed themselves. Maybe not in words, but, rather, in a look that lingered too long or a smile too honest. Daisuke may never have noticed, but Yamato was certain that Ken had. More than once he had caught the ex-Kaiser watching him, that annoying little smirk hovering over upturned lips. Invariably, when Yamato would notice, Ken would choose that moment to step closer to Daisuke, a hand lightly brushing over a shoulder or across the small of Daisuke’s back, Ken’s lips twisted ever-so-slightly into a tiny smile declaring, “Mine,” even as he feigned great interest in whatever it happened to be that Daisuke was inevitably in the process of doing or saying.

“Yamato!” Daisuke’s rough grip on his arm brought Yamato back to the problem at hand, namely, how to comfort the younger without betraying sworn confidences or his own troubled feelings. Yamato reached down and gently pried loose Daisuke’s anxious fingers, allowing himself a quick squeeze of Daisuke’s hand, but nothing more.

“It’s okay,” Yamato promised the younger man, “I can take care of it. Just sit down. And try to be quite.” Yamato hoped his bemused smile would take any sting out of the mild rebuke.

“I’ll go back and see what’s going on,” Yamato continued, promising, “I’ll let you know,” before tacking on, “Just stay here and don’t bother anyone for a minute. Okay?”

Daisuke paused, not outright refusing Yamato’s request for patience, but still, Yamato could sense his hesitation.

Yamato sighed, turning so he stood face to face with the younger man. Yamato’s hands fell, heavy, on Daisuke’s shoulders, pulling the shorter man towards him, even as he leaned in, his head bent down so that their foreheads nearly touched. It was something he’d done often when they were 12 and 15. It had always seemed to draw the younger boy’s attention, given him focus and focus was really what Yamato needed from him right now.

“Listen,” Yamato’s voice was soft, meant only to carry to Daisuke’s ears, “This isn’t a game. This is serious.” Yamato caught Daisuke’s dark eyes, staring hard; trying to articulate the gravity of the situation in ways words would never manage. “I’ll do what I can,” Yamato swore, “But I need you to do what I say and to **stay calm** , okay?”

Daisuke swallowed roughly. Yamato could not help but notice that he was still in the habit of pursing his lips together when considering his options. Finally, however, the red-headed man nodded his agreement. Yamato smiled, giving Daisuke’s shoulders a quick squeeze before stepping back.

“Wait here,” Yamato instructed, gesturing with his chin towards a bank of chairs lining the far wall even as he started moving towards a large grey door, “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he promised.  It took only seconds for the light above the door to flip to green. Yamato quickly made his way in, not daring to glance back at Daisuke, who, experience told him, would still be standing where he had been left, lips pulled inward, as he tried to decide if Yamato’s read of the situation could really be trusted.

“Who’s that?” Sakamoto’s question startled Yamato. He allowed himself a frustrated grunt before turning to the other officer with a frown.

“Complications,” Yamato answered before changing the subject, “So you said you had something to show me?”

Sakamoto shrugged. “A little,” he hedged, “but not much.” Yamato understood what the other officer was saying. Never had Yamato worked cases more frustrating than these had proven to be, cases with facts a plenty but evidence in conspicuous absence.

“But you said you think it may be the son?” Yamato pushed. Sakamoto nodded.

“My gut says yes,” Sakamoto admitted before confessing, “Not that I can prove it.” He let out an exasperated sigh.

“The kid isn’t talking?” Yamato was somewhat surprised to find himself hoping that Ken had been smart enough to shut up, to refuse to say anything that might work against him later, should he be charged.

He was surprised, and then annoyed at his own betrayal of what he had come to believe was justice.

“Oh he talks,” Sakamoto explained, “It’s just—he never actually _says_ anything.” He gave Yamato a wry half-smile.

Later, when re-reading transcripts of Ken’s first interview, Yamato would come to truly appreciate just what Sakamoto had been trying to explain to him that day.

No matter what the question, or how it had been put, Ken’s responses seemed oddly _incomplete_. They rarely, if ever, actually _explained_ anything. Ken certainly never _volunteered_ any information.

Yamato had known from personal experience that Ken was more than adept in the art of using words to say nothing and that few, if any people in this world possessed the talent to hold their peace as well as he could. Still, Yamato found himself taken aback at how, even on paper, Ichijouji Ken managed to give off an air of complete imperviousness.

Just reading what the younger man had, or really, had not said was enough to make Yamato want to grind his back teeth. Still, when Yamato found himself thinking back to that day at the station, he couldn’t help feeling at least some regret.

Yamato had not hesitated when Sakamoto had offered to take him into the observation room adjacent to where Ken was still being questioned by Sakamoto’s partner. As he stood next to the two way mirror in the darkened room, studying the man who had once dreamed of ruling the Digital World, Yamato found himself astonished at just how small he looked, how defeated. There was a genuine sense of misery in his face that even Yamato could not deny.

Yamato had found himself frowning when he realized it was Nakamura in the tight interrogation room with Ken. They had worked a case together about three years back, when Yamato had been fresh out of the academy, and, after that experience, Yamato had decided that he would not wish Nakamura on his worst enemy. Hell, he wasn’t even willing wish Nakamura on the Digital Kaiser. The man was an ass, even under the best circumstances.

An arrogant ass. Worse, a _stupid,_ arrogant ass. One who would never realize when he was being played like a fiddle. And there was no doubt in Yamato’s mind just then that Ken had Nakamura dancing to whatever tune he so pleased, judging by which of the men was clearly the more aggravated, anyway.

Sakamoto chuckled, “He thinks he’s getting to him.” When Yamato looked askance at the other officer, Sakamoto clarified, “Nakamura. He really thinks if he keeps nipping at Ichijouji like that, he’ll suddenly crack. But it won’t work. I’ve never interviewed anyone more detached.”

Yamato only grunted in answer but could help wondering why, if Sakamoto had the same read on the futility of the situation as he had, hadn’t the man stepped in to stop Nakamura before now? Nakamura was his partner after all. Surely, that counted for something.

Was there some reason for continuing this charade past the point of usefulness? If you weren’t going to get any more information and you weren’t going to be able to charge the man, just cut him loose. Let Daisuke take him home. Give Daisuke at least that much.

Was Ken a murderer? The murderer? Yamato had not allowed himself to even really consider the idea at that point. He had been thinking of the red-headed man who was waiting, scared and angry in the front lobby. The same man who was probably still standing, staring at the door Yamato had entered, hoping, praying that Yamato would not let him down, and that Ken, his lover, would soon be released.

“He’s friends with my kid brother.” Yamato was shocked to hear himself admit the truth to Sakamoto.

“Who?” Sakamoto asked, confused, “The guy in the lobby?”

“No,” Yamato answered before equivocating, “Well, yeah.” He paused a second, then sighed, “Both him and…” Yamato used his chin to motion towards the other side of the mirror. He knew that Sakamoto was staring at him, but Yamato refused to turn and meet his gaze.

Finally the second officer turned away, offering a muttered, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Yamato answered. Yamato later found himself wondering why Sakamoto had not pointed out the obvious conflict of interest. Maybe it was trust. This was actually the second time Sakamoto had called Yamato about a potential strangulation case. He must have understood what kind for pressure Yamato was under. But then, maybe it was just indifference. Who’s to say?

 Whatever the reason, Yamato had been glad Sakamoto had not tried to press the point. Instead, he tapped on the glass in front of them both, drawing the attention of Nakamura. After a second more, the odiferous man stood up and, leaving Ken alone, joined them in the dark room.

“Anything?” Sakamoto asked, both he and Yamato ignoring the openly hostile way Nakamura was eyeing Yamato in his sharply pressed NPA uniform.

“No.” Nakamura finally admitted, “He may be nothing more than a little _okama_ ,” he opined, “But he’s the coldest sonabitch I’ve ever made.”

“You got anything to hold him on?” Yamato questioned, ignoring the pejorative. Just talking to older man left Yamato feeling unclean.

“Other than being a creep-ass mother-fucker?” Nakamura paused, almost daring Yamato to answer. When that became apparent that he wouldn’t, Nakamura admitted, “No.”

“Release him then.” Nakamura stared, slack jawed at is partner’s simple statement. Sakamoto just shrugged. “We can’t keep him much longer anyway,” he reminded the older man. “Cut him loose. We can bring him back in when we get something else.”

“Besides,” Yamato told them both, “this case just came under taskforce jurisdiction.” Yamato did not like to pull rank. In fact, he usually didn’t have to. Most detectives were more than happy to hand over any case that contained even a whiff of political quagmire. Still, Yamato knew Nakamura to be the obstinate sort. “Though I’ll be more than happy to keep you updated on the case,” he promised with false sincerity.

“Whatever,” Nakamura grumbled, “Like I give a shit. I’ve got better things to do than play toddy to some damn administrative policy prick.”  The words were rude at best, insubordinate in truth, but Yamato let them pass unremarked, especially as Nakamura was already sauntering off to do as he had been told.

“He starts to grow on you after a while,” Sakamoto promised, once he was certain that Nakamura was out of earshot. Yamato couldn’t help chuckling at the blatantly false statement.

“You ever going to get me those files you promised?” Yamato queried in return, his tone purposefully light.

“Shit! Yeah,” Sakamoto grinned, “This way,” he motioned leading Yamato away from the interrogation room where Ken still sat, eyes focused straight ahead, hands calmly folded in his lap. Yamato shook his head. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Ken was no longer in the interrogation room when Yamato stuck his head in to check two hours later. Nor was Daisuke anywhere to be seen as Yamato made his way through the lobby. Yamato concluded that Nakamura must have actually done as he had been asked, and allowed the dark-haired man to leave, and to that, Yamato could admit that he was glad. He could also admit, if only to himself, that he was mildly disappointed that he had not gotten a second chance to speak with Daisuke.

Not that Yamato had had time to dwell on the idea in that moment. His focus had shifted almost immediately to the nearly empty banker’s box that contained what little evidence the two station detectives had managed to gather. Now his duty was to get it back to the taskforce’s makeshift headquarters so that they could begin going over each and every piece with a fine toothed comb.

Of course the most important information was likely to come with the autopsy results and those wouldn’t be back for at least another two days. Still, there was work to be done and Yamato had long since learned that work was, far and away, the best remedy for personal _feelings_.

That was how he had found himself in the here and now, nearly a month later, alone, Ichijouji Rika’s file spread open in front of him, all the other officers having left for home or bars or _life_ hours earlier.

Yamato tucked the transcript from Ken’s first interview back into the file and reached for the record of his second. There wasn’t much to differentiate the two beyond the name of the officer conducting the interview.

Yamato knew without looking that the same could be said for the third and the fourth and even the fifth interview.

No matter how many times they had brought the dark haired man in, no matter what they had used to try and push him off balance, to rattle him, to unnerve or trap him, there had never been even the smallest sliver of new information. Rather, by the third interview, all Ken would say was that he couldn’t really remember anything that had happened that terrible morning. Nothing was solid, nothing was certain; his only memories were of a dense gray fog, obscuring everything.

One could suggest that there was a hint of innocence in the way that Ken’s story had never changed. But then, that was because there had never really been any story to begin with.

Yamato slammed the folder shut again with an irritated growl.

At first, Yamato had attempted to keep Ken’s case separate from the other strangulation murders, both in his own mind and in the minds of the other taskforce members. It was just too tempting to hope that they finally had a name and a face to go with the ever mounting number of heretofore unsolved cases.

Yamato had to be certain that they fit the case to the facts and not the facts to the case. It was the only way he could live with himself. It was the only way he’d ever be able to face Daisuke.

It was only after Yamato had proven to himself that Ken _could_ have possibly committed his mother’s murder that he allowed himself to wonder if, just maybe, Ken _could_ have also committed the others.

Of course, deciding one way or the other was proving difficult. Mostly because of the fact that by then, more than half a year had passed since the first strangulation murder. And even if the murders had not occurred in a thronging city in the middle of the night, any potential alibi would be difficult to prove or disprove after such a length of time.

Was Ken’s involvement outside the realm of possibility? Hell no. Yamato was firm in that. Was it outside the realm of _probability_? That was a bit more uncertain.

Yamato was startled by the sudden ringing of the telephone three desks over. With a sigh, he pushed back from his desk and walking over, picked it up on the fourth ring with a clipped, “OSM taskforce, Ishida speaking.”

“Heh,” came the answer from the other end, “I thought you might still be there.” Yamato glanced up at the clock hanging above the giant whiteboard across the room. Shit! Almost three a.m. When had it gotten so late?

“This is Sakamoto,” the caller continued, “We had a call-in about two hours ago and…well… when I got here, I thought maybe you might want to come have a look?” Something about the other man’s tone disturbed Yamato. He wouldn’t be calling this late unless it was really something unsettling. Yamato looked up at the clock again with a sigh. It was much too late to try and requisition a car and even if he were to leave left right now, there was no way he’d make the last train. Damn it!

Of course, there was always the option of a taxi, but… “You think it’s one of mine?” Yamato pressed. If he was going to pay out of pocket for a taxi ride across Tokyo at three in the morning, he wanted to make damn sure it would be worth his time.

“It’s your guy’s MO,” Sakamoto answered, though something about the way he said it made Yamato think that there was more to the story. When Yamato didn’t respond immediately, Sakamoto continued, hedging, “Look, I’m not 100% here,” he admitted, “It’s weird. Everything about the scene, my gut, it all says, we’re looking at the same creep, only…”

“Only what?” Yamato pressed when Sakamoto trailed off yet again.

“Only,” a sigh filtered down through the late-night line followed by another long pause, then, “Only this time, it looks like he’s decided to leave us two.”

 

And suddenly, Yamato’s world began to spin.

 

 

* * *

 


	4. The Devil

**JUNE**

Daisuke pursed his lips as he read the text scrolling along the bottom of the muted television. It was hard to see the smallish characters from where he stood, just inside the kitchen, guarding the coffee percolating on the stove. Still, he refused to turn the volume up, not with Ken pretending to sleep in the room just down the hall.

The television flipped to commercial just as Daisuke reached over to remove the coffee from the stove’s heating element, setting the tall carafe on the nearby trivet. He pulled a mug out of the overhead cabinet, adding it to the waiting tray that already contained white rice and a banana. Daisuke considered frying up an egg before shaking his head. Ken had not been willing to even consider eating eggs since that first day at the station and Daisuke was tired of throwing perfectly good food away.

The excessively perky newscaster was back on by the time Daisuke had finished pouring up the coffee. He continued reading, squinting, as he carefully stirred the single spoonful of sugar into the otherwise unadulterated cup, only to find himself suddenly overcome by an almost inexplicable anger. Daisuke threw the spoon he had been using into the sink with unwarranted force, grabbing the television remote from where it sat on the nearby counter and turning the television off, disgusted.

It was about to start all over, yet again.

Well, the truth was, it had never _really_ stopped. But, somehow, the quiet of the previous two months had made Daisuke hope against hope that maybe, just maybe, things had finally started to calm down. That maybe the police had found something, anything, that would point them in a new direction.

It had been a little over five months since the last murder, or rather, murders, had rocked the morning news. Things had been crazy at first, a veritable feeding frenzy as news of the double homicide broke, with each network fighting to secure the best “experts” money could buy, all of whom began tripping over themselves to expound on the killer’s possible motives and what to expect now that he/she/it seemed to be escalating.

But then… nothing. The murders that had been flashing across the morning news with startling regularity every two months suddenly stopped.  And despite the heightened sense of awareness, the feeling, all throughout Tokyo, of waiting for the other shoe to drop, nothing happened.

It wasn’t until the four month anniversary of the double murder had come and gone, however, that the craziest of the theories really began to fly about the daily talk shows.

Maybe, some posited, the murderer was finished, that whatever task he’d been driven to complete was now done.

Still others suggested that maybe the police had already caught the guy, or, at the very least, knew who had been doing the murders and the closer scrutiny made it impossible for him to continue his rampage.

Of course, there were those who believed that the murderer must have died or, perhaps, even better yet, been killed, possibly by one of their own intended victims, forever taking the secrets of their crimes to their grave.

Still though, no one _really_ knew.

The internet was just as bad, if not more terrible, swirling with rumors about the son of a high ranking government official who had suddenly been shipped overseas for no apparent reason or, worse still, claims of proof that the murders **_had_** continued, but that the police had started covering this fact up.

But whatever the reason might be for the murders having stopped, by the time the five month anniversary had approached, most people had already started to forget that they had even ever occurred, their own lives taking precedence over vaguely remembered tragedies suffered by unknown strangers months and months earlier.

Sure, the occasional young woman might reference the murders when trying to finagle an escort home from a cute coworker, or vice versa, but the _fear_ that had been almost ubiquitous five or even three months earlier had already begun to dissipate.

But now this. When things were finally starting to truly calm down. When the police had all-but quit hounding Ken. When Yamato had finally seemed to have taken the hint. When Daisuke had finally started to hope that maybe, just maybe, things would start getting back to normal, or, at the very least, what would reasonably pass for normal.

A second double homicide.

Daisuke found himself wondering if the police would hold a press conference like they had after the first double homicide. If so, what would they say? What _could_ they say?

An image of Yamato standing with the other officers as cameras flashed and reporters hurled questions at the NPA Director months earlier ghosted before Daisuke’s eyes. The older digi-destined had looked years older than Daisuke knew him to be, his close cropped blond hair appearing almost silver in the glare of the lights. Yamato did not appear to have slept in days and for a moment, Daisuke had almost felt his anger towards the older man about the way Ken had been treated start to mellow.

Almost.

But then there had been that pounding knock at the apartment door.

Daisuke shook his head at the memory, picking up the tray from the kitchen counter and balancing it carefully over one arm even as he ducked under the small blue curtain hanging in the doorway. He made his way back to the bedroom he and Ken shared, doing his best to wipe the evidence of his previous thoughts off of his face, determined not to burden the dark-haired man.

“Hmmm?”  The softly questioning noise was all the warning Daisuke gave before walking over to where Ken lay, only the top of his blue-black head sticking out from underneath the covers. Daisuke paused to rebalance the tray on one arm again before reaching down to grab a fistful of comforter, jerking both it and the lemon colored sheets down to the foot of the bed in one swift motion.

“Ah!” he teased, “There’s a man in my bed!”  When Ken failed to immediately respond, he continued in his best falsetto, “What ever will I do!?”

It worked. Ken rolled over, opening his eyes as he reached his hands above his head, stretching, even offering Daisuke a small smile.

“Come on, sit up,” Daisuke prodded, “breakfast’s getting cold.” He grinned as Ken did as he had been told, scooting up so that Daisuke could place the tray over his lap.

“Coffee,” Daisuke answered Ken’s vaguely curious look, “White rice, a banana.” He smiled when Ken picked up the pair of chopsticks lying on the tray only to have to bite back a scowl when they just hovered over the bowl of rice hesitantly.

“If you want something else…” Daisuke offered after a few long seconds, but Ken just shook his head.

“You spoil me too much,” Ken scolded, taking a deep breath even as he seemed to be steeling himself in preparation of some odious chore.  The chopsticks finally descended, taking small pinch of rice off the top of the mound and conveying it to Ken’s mouth, delicate and graceful in the mundane, as only Ken could be.

“It’s not that much trouble,” Daisuke muttered, crawling into the bed and burrowing in close to Ken with a sigh, “I’d be happy to make whatever.”

 Ken set the chopsticks down as he chewed then reached for the cup of coffee. He brought it close to his nose, inhaling deeply. If there was one thing Daisuke could count on Ken enjoying, it was his morning cup of coffee. The dark haired man blew softly across the top of the mug before taking a careful sip.

“Where’s yours?” Ken asked after setting the cup back on the tray. Daisuke looked up from where he had snuggled in tight next to Ken’s side with his best Cheshire-cat grin.

“I already ate earlier.” It was a lie. He hadn’t. But the morning’s news had destroyed whatever appetite he might have had and it wouldn’t do for him to admit to the very same thing he was always nagging Ken about. Ken just nodded, accepting.

“Are you working today?”

“No. I have the day off.” A second lie. He was supposed to go in to work. In fact, he would need to call them soon and let them know he did not plan to show. Still, Daisuke knew he couldn’t risk leaving Ken here alone, not when Daisuke expected the police to be beating on their door at any moment.

“Eat,” Daisuke chided a minute later, poking at Ken’s ribs in a way that Daisuke knew drove the ticklish man insane, “I’ll be back in a bit,” he promised, pushing himself up from the bed with a grunt before dragging the wicker basket full of their dirty clothes out of the closet and heading towards the laundry room. It would be easier to call work without Ken hearing with their ancient washing machine running.

When Daisuke came back down the hall 15 minutes later, Ken and his breakfast tray were gone from the bedroom. Daisuke tossed the now empty wicker basket back in the closet before straightening up the bed, taking special care to fluff and then refluff Ken’s flattened pillow. That chore finished, Daisuke wandered back out into the hallway and towards the front of the apartment, looking for Ken.

“Ken?” there was no answer, but Daisuke did find the breakfast tray, perched precariously by the edge of the kitchen sink. He sighed, setting the empty coffee cup in the sink to be washed before grabbing the only half eaten banana and the barely touched bowl of rice and turning to dump them in the kitchen trash. It was only when he finally looked up, arm reaching only half consciously to place the now empty rice bowl in the sink, that he noticed someone, Ken, had turned the television back on.

The television was still muted, the newsfeed scrolling continuously across the bottom of the screen even as the reporter, this time a young man in a suit and tie, mouthed soundless words. Daisuke let his eyes blink shut for a long second, willing himself to remain calm, undisturbed, even as he tried his best not to curse fate for deciding that today was the day that Ken, notorious in his dislike for all things “television”, would suddenly take up TV watching.

“Ken?” Despite his best intentions, Daisuke could hear the worry in his voice. He walked over to the television, turning it off for the second time that morning before calling yet again, “Ken!”

“Yes?” Ken stuck his head around the edge of the patio door. He had smoothed out the worst of his bed head, but had not bothered to change out of his pajamas. Daisuke shook his head. If only the rest of the world really knew what an utter scatterbrain Ichijouji Ken could be, he thought to himself, unwilling to acknowledge that what he really loved was the fact that they did not. Ichijouji Ken, the real Ichijouji Ken, belonged only to him, with Ken’s natural rectitude providing the buffer between reality and public image.

“What are you doing?” Daisuke asked as he walked over and leaned out onto the tiny patio, though he already had a pretty good idea. Ken did not bother with an answer, instead holding up his small tin watering can by way of explanation.  Daisuke watched as Ken set the can down and reached up to brush gently at the leaves of the closest plant, almost as if he were petting it.

Ken’s interest in horticulture was a relatively new one, though, if pressed, Daisuke would have had difficulty saying when, exactly, it had started. All Daisuke knew what that the first plant had shown up, seemingly out of the blue, on his kitchen counter one morning. When he had asked Ken about it, the dark haired man had only shrugged. When Daisuke had asked him not to keep it where he cooked, Ken willingly complied, setting up a small plant shelf on their patio that very afternoon.

The next time he happened to notice, Daisuke wasn’t sure how much later it had been, the original plant had been joined by two others.

Now their patio was a veritable jungle. Not that it bothered Daisuke.  Ken had been careful to leave room for Daisuke’s laundry rack and the only time he had requested Daisuke’s help in caring for the plants was when he was hanging the plastic sheeting he used to protect them during the rougher storms that sometimes hit.

Ken moved on to the next plant, oblivious to the way Daisuke was watching his fixed routine.  First, the plant in question was offered a bit of water, then Ken would brush at its leaves softly. Through it all, Daisuke could almost swear he heard a soft hum, a murmur that seemed to flow from Ken’s lips and into the leaves of the plant.

There was a new one, or, at least, Daisuke thought it was new. He couldn’t remember having seen it before, though the pot it was planted in looked as if it had weathered more than a few years’ life. Unlike any of the others, this one still held on to its little plastic spike inscribed with care instructions. Daisuke reached forward and pulled it free, flipping it over so he could read what was written.

“Golden Pothos,” he read aloud, his tongue struggling to sound out the foreign sounding words. Ken looked up at him with a smile.

“It’s also called Devil’s Ivy,” Ken informed him. Daisuke frowned at the name, leaning over to put the tiny stake back into the plant’s soil. Somehow, it did not seem fair to call such a beautiful thing _devilish_. Daisuke found himself reaching out to run a finger along one of the large, waxy, green and yellow leaves, tracing its gentle heart-like shape.

Daisuke’s eyes moved to the plant sitting one shelf higher than the ivy. This one, too, had the same heart shaped leaves, only its leaves were small, a deeper green and almost fuzzy. Another placed nearby sported foliage that was olive green with cream colored veins running throughout, and it, too, had the same heart-shape to its leaves. Then there was one that was sending out long curling vines covered in bright green leaves. It took Daisuke a minute to realize that it was the original plant, so much had it grown and spread. All in all, Daisuke counted ten plants, most of them ivies, all of them sporting heart shaped leaves. Daisuke watched as Ken reached out, gently petting yet another of his plants and he could not help but wonder if Ken’s sudden, surprising interest in horticulture stemmed from some unfulfilled longing for his digimon partner, Leafmon.

Truth was, Ken refused to talk about Leafmon or Wormon or any variation of their digimon partners and had for years. It had worried Daisuke at first, Ken’s seeming refusal to even acknowledge the past. It had worried him and it had hurt him because Daisuke wanted to remember his partner. He had wanted to reminisce about the times that they had had together, the fun and the not-so-fun, with someone who would genuinely understand.

Only every time Daisuke had tried to bring their digimon up, Ken had shut down.

Soon, Daisuke had learned that whatever pleasure there may have been in talking about Chibimon or Veemon or their adventures in the Digital World, it was far outweighed by the pain of having Ken purposefully shut him out. So Daisuke had quit trying.

But looking at Ken’s garden of Leafmon-like plants, Daisuke found himself wondering if that had been the right path to take. Maybe, what he should have done was push Ken harder, force the dark haired man to accept the hurt of what had been taken away from them when they were barely old enough to understand its importance. Force him to acknowledge their pain…

Daisuke was broken from his thoughts by Ken’s quite sigh. His eyes immediately went to Ken’s face, and then over the patio railing to where a police car had just pulled up next to their building.

“Go get dressed.” Daisuke’s voice was low, but filled with an unmistakable anger. Ken looked down at his pajamas with a self-depreciating smile before nodding his head and disappearing back into the apartment they shared. Daisuke remained at the patio railing, watching the car, daring, if only in his mind, a blond man to step out.

After several long minutes, two officers did step out of the car, but neither of them were Yamato, or, at least, what looked to be Yamato from this distance. Daisuke fought back a sigh of his own as he watched them walk along the sidewalk towards the front of the building. Daisuke followed their movement until they were lost around the far corner. Only then, did he allow himself to go back into the apartment, sliding the patio door closed with a gentle rap.

Ken had already managed to dress and was sitting, waiting on the couch, the picture of calm, though Daisuke could easily suss out the truth of Ken’s mood in the hard line of his shoulders.

Daisuke frowned at Ken’s choice of a long-sleeved dress shirt, given how warm the June day was expected to become, but he knew it would be utterly futile to try and talk the taller man into changing.

It was utterly futile to try and talk Ken into _anything_.

“Don’t argue with them.” For the shortest second, Daisuke almost thought it was the Kaiser, himself, who had spoken, so forceful and commanding, was the simple statement. But no, it was Ken, turned now, to stare at Daisuke, who was still standing by the patio door, fists clinched. “No matter what,” Ken insisted, “Just stay calm.” He smiled a little at Daisuke, “They can’t hurt me,” he promised.

“Bullshit,” Daisuke _wanted_ to say, “Bullshit.” He wanted to hit something. He wanted to _harm_ something. He wanted to **_destroy_** something. And he would, too, if he thought that there was any chance that doing so would protect Ken. Because, despite what Ken might have to say on the matter, it was Daisuke who had been the one to take a silent and unresponsive Ken home after that first interview. In fact, it had been Daisuke who was tasked with putting the pieces back together after each and every one of Ken’s interviews, interrogations, whatever they were. But Daisuke knew that no good could come out of his pointing as much out, so, in the end, _as always_ , he bit his tongue.

There was a sharp, all too familiar knock on the apartment door. Ken stood up from the couch, but was stopped by Daisuke’s hand on his shoulder.

“Sit,” Daisuke’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but the hand that pressed down on Ken’s shoulder was firm, resolute. Ken did as he had been asked without argument, watching as Daisuke made his way over to their small entry way, bending slightly to slip his feet into waiting shoes before glancing back to where Ken was sitting, perched alertly on the edge of their couch, with a small smile.

There came a second knock, harder, more insistent, and Daisuke had to bite back the urge to growl even as his attention turned once again to the door. Daisuke shuffled the few feet forward, unlocking the double deadbolt before slinging the door open, eyeing the two officers ugly.

For a moment, it almost seemed as if the door flying open had confused the officers. One still stood with his fist raised to knock. Daisuke caught the other sizing up the flowers growing in his neighbor’s window box.

“Can I help you?” Daisuke’s voice was cold.

“Motomiya Daisuke?” the first officer asked, his still clinched fist falling to his side awkwardly.

Daisuke nodded his head, his eyes darting, almost subconsciously, over his shoulder in Ken’s general direction. He failed to notice the quick look that passed between the two officers.

Daisuke’s eyes swung back around to the two police officers when the first cleared his throat roughly.

“Motomiya Daisuke?” the officer asked yet again.

“Yes.” He answered, his annoyance rising even further. It took every ounce of his will-power not to shove the man away when he reached up, gripping Daisuke’s arm roughly.

“Can you step out of the apartment, please,” the second officer asked, though his tone implied the distinct _lack_ of any question, “We’re going to need you to come with us.” His partner only nodded, but his grip tightened, drawing Daisuke closer.

The only thing Daisuke remembered hearing as he was pulled, forcibly, from the apartment’s tiny foyer, and over to the waiting elevator was Ken’s anguished howl.

 

* * *

 


	5. The Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to get this out. You know how hard it is to read something after you realize that a character you like is heading towards something heartbreakingly terrible? Yeah? Try being the person responsible for making them go there. *smiles*
> 
> I promise to try harder to get the next chapter out in a reasonable time, if for no other reason than so that I can say my apologies to these poor characters and move on to something happier. 
> 
> On that note, Happy Reading!

* * *

 

**FEBRUARY**

**Ten Years Earlier**

 

Ken’s hand pressed gently against the top of the duffle bag hanging over his shoulder. He was unable to stop himself from smiling at Leafmon’s quiet exhalations juxtaposed against Chibomon’s raucous snores. Both digimon had fallen asleep shortly after leaving Koushiro’s apartment, no doubt due in equal parts to the cold temperatures, their warm nest and the fact that their bellies were over-full with the usual convenience store rubbish Miyako invariably brought to all of the digidestined meetings.

“Ken?” Daisuke had been walking a few feet ahead of Ken but stopped when he realized the older boy was no longer at his heels, “I can carry them for a while,” he offered, holding out a hand. But Ken only shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” Daisuke asked, pausing only a second before continuing, “Is that Chibomon?” Daisuke shook his head as if he had never heard such snoring before, “Jeeze!” he teased, “How can they sleep through that?” Despite the horrified tone, Daisuke was smiling. Ken offered him a small smile in return.

“It’s not that bad,” Ken chided, his hand resting against the duffle bag in what he hoped was a reassuring way. It had not been his intention to respond, to engage. Not really, anyway. The last thing Ken wanted to do was to encourage more of Daisuke’s silly antics, because then he would never stop, but something about the way Daisuke kept miming shocked disapproval at his digimon’s thunderous snores had amused Ken. Amused him, and for the barest of seconds, brought him out of his own head and into the present, much to Ken’s annoyance.

Ken was trying to think and the red-headed boy always seemed to make that so damn difficult.

“Not that bad?” Daisuke demanded in return, “Not that _bad?_ Are we hearing the same digimon?” Daisuke shook his head in mock exasperation.

Ken shrugged resigned to letting Daisuke’s pretend pique play out, “I’ve heard worse,” he admitted, shooting Daisuke a knowing look—one it did not take the curly-headed boy long to understand.

“Me?” Daisuke’s hand clutched at his heart as if he could not believe what Ken was suggesting.  The younger boy stumbled back like he had been struck, one had reaching out to a nearby bench even as the other stayed fisted at his chest, “Could this be true?” he asked, voice rough, his body bent in mock pain.

A quick glance back to Ken confirmed that the dark-haired boy did not seem particularly concerned about Daisuke’s theatrically hurt feelings. In fact, he did not seem to be paying much attention to Daisuke at all, his eyes and, and perhaps more importantly, his mind focusing somewhere far beyond Daisuke.

“Ahh!” Daisuke exclaimed, suddenly developing a full-blown case of the vapors, “Alas!” He fell back onto the waiting bench, him arm falling dramatically across his face even as he forcibly declared towards the sky, “Forsooth!”

That was it. Despite his original intentions, Ken heard himself chuckle. He shook his head at Daisuke who, for all his heart-felt faint, seemed to be stealing surreptitious peeks at Ken from underneath his own arm.

“Fine, fine,” Ken relented, “I take it back.” That proved to be all the tonic Daisuke needed. The younger man rebounded immediately from his pout, bouncing back to offer Ken a glowing grin.

“You really shouldn’t lie like that,” Daisuke scolded, his tone mocking. Ken had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. The red-headed boy sat up, scooting to one side to provide room even as patted the bench, motioning Ken over.

Ken ignored the gentle summons, “Come on, let’s go,” he answered instead, gesturing in the general direction of the train station with his head, “It’s getting cold out here.”

The park was more than just cold. In fact, the heavy grey overcast skies were threatening snow at any moment, most everyone else having already left in preparation for the predicted storm. But inclement weather rarely bothered Daisuke, especially when he was already out in it. Daisuke reached out, easily catching the strap of Ken’s duffle bag and using it to pull Ken in closer.

“Nope,” Daisuke answered with his usual nonchalance, grabbing Ken’s wrists and using them to hold the older boy in place, “We’re not going anywhere.” Daisuke grinned at his bound friend, “Not ‘till you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Ken growled in annoyance, but did not move to tug himself free or push Daisuke away, though Daisuke had no doubt that he certainly could have, and with force, had he wanted to.

There was no mistaking an innate violence held tenuously in check just below the surface in Ken.  It was a truth, easily seen, that seemed to alternately strengthen and terrify the dark-haired boy—almost as if it were his biggest pride and yet, not entirely within his own control. Still, even on those rare occasions when Daisuke would allow himself to consider that part of Ken with more than fleeting interest, something, somehow told him that he had nothing to fear.

Not _truly_ anyway.

It was that duality of Ken, the power inherent, purposefully subdued, that Daisuke had always found intriguing, even in the Kaiser.

“Let’s go,” Ken urged. He tugged at his wrists held firm by Daisuke, albeit only half-heartedly. He was unwilling to disturb their still sleeping digimon, or so Ken chose to tell himself, “I don’t want to miss my train,” he insisted. Daisuke did not move.

“It’s cold,” Ken tried again. But still, there was no response. In fact, the younger boy had taken to feigning unmasked boredom. Ken let out a frustrated sigh at the poorly acted pretense.

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Ken claimed, finally acknowledging what it was Daisuke wanted from him even as he found himself frowning at the hint of pleading that had seeped into his tone. Why did Daisuke always insist that everything be _debated_ and _discussed_? Couldn’t he see that something were better just left to wither and die of their own accord?

 This time it was Daisuke’s turn to sigh. His eyes flickered to the bag hanging over Ken’s shoulder before returning to Ken’s face, “You _really_ shouldn’t lie like that,” Daisuke repeated, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. They were the very same words he had used before and yet, this time, what had been nothing more than childish teasing seemed to cut Ken to the bone.

Ken felt his spine stiffen, felt himself pull away, even as Daisuke’s grip on his wrist tightened, pulling him in closer.

“Let me go.” The words were harsh, spoken low, barely more than a growl, but Daisuke had long since resolved to never to let fear of Ken keep him from pursuing the would-be Kaiser.

Daisuke could see the anger in Ken’s eyes. He could feel the anger pulsing through Ken’s body.  He knew that what Ken really wanted in that moment was to hurt him, to hurt Daisuke in the way that he’d been hurt, to hurt Daisuke _worse_ than he had been hurt.

But Daisuke also knew that the taller boy was afraid. Afraid of what he wanted to do to Daisuke, afraid that he might actually do it, and afraid that Daisuke would abandon him if he did.

Afraid that Daisuke would abandon him, _even if he didn’t_.

If for no other reason than that, Daisuke would never let go of Ken. Instead, he drew the taller boy in closer still, releasing Ken’s wrists only to wrap his arms around his narrow waist, oversized duffle bag and all, pulling Ken into a tight embrace, Daisuke’s face pressing against Ken’s chest. Daisuke couldn’t help his small smile when he realized he could now hear Ken’s pounding heart beat in addition to Chibomon’s raucous snores. It was an oddly comforting combination.

It took several long minutes, but finally, Daisuke felt Ken’s mood turn. The tension drained from Ken’s body, his anger falling away even more quickly than it had arrived. Seconds later, Daisuke felt one of Ken’s hands patting awkwardly, but affectionately, at the top of his head.  

“Let me go.” Ken’s voice was kind, if somewhat muffled with embarrassment even as the hand in question fell away again. Daisuke only shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he continued to hold Ken tight.

“Come on,” Ken insisted, pushing gently now at Daisuke’s shoulders, “Someone’s going to see.”

Daisuke opened his eyes, but only long enough to sneak a quick peak around the empty park. “There’s no one here,” he informed Ken before resuming his tight hug. Ken just shook his head, sighing at Daisuke’s naivety.

“It’s Tokyo,” Ken reminded him, pushing at his shoulders yet again, a bit more forcefully this time, “There’s _always_ someone here.” Still, Ken couldn’t stop his small smile at the disappointed noise Daisuke made. Finally though, the red-headed boy pulled away, letting his arms drop away from Ken’s waist, but not before giving the taller boy one last squeeze.

“Sorry,” Daisuke’s apology was as short as it was unexpected, “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He leaned back against the bench, looking up at Ken with a small, pained smile. Ken shook his head.

“I wasn’t upset,” he promised. It was a blatant lie, but neither boy bothered to acknowledge it. As if offering his own apology, Ken slipped the duffle bag off of his shoulder, setting it gently on the ground beside the bench before sitting down next to Daisuke. Daisuke smiled in return.

Daisuke’s eyes traced the path of a single snowflake, making its erratic decent towards the ground. Ken was right. It was cold and the storm would be upon them soon. Still, Daisuke could not bring himself to just leave things as they were.

“You’re thinking about what Koushiro said.” Daisuke was surprised at just how worried he sounded.  It wasn’t that he had been purposefully trying to put the older digidestined’s words out of mind, well not _really_ , anyway, but he had not actually stopped to consider them, either.

After all, there would be time enough for that later. Preferably after Ken or Koushiro had already solved the problem and there wasn’t anything left to worry about.

Ken frowned, his lips forming a hard line. “You mean, am wondering if we are ‘ _perverting_ _the natural course of the Digital World_ ’?” he quoted the older digidestined, his tone bitter.

Daisuke flinched at the way Ken said the word _perverting._ Somehow, it sounded even worse than when Koushiro had said it the first time. For Koushiro, his use of the word had been purely clinical.

But with Ken, Daisuke could almost taste the self-loathing.

Daisuke glanced at the bag sitting at his and Ken’s feet. Without thinking, Ken had managed to place it where it would be most protected from the worst of the winter wind, its zipper open just  enough to allow their sleeping digimon fresh air without risking a chill-inducing draft.

It was not fair that the Digital World was putting them in this position, not after everything it had already taken from them.

_Certainly not after everything it had taken from Ken._

Daisuke glanced up at the former-Kaiser. The winter wind had managed to drudge up some small semblance of color on Ken’s nose and cheeks, but there was little else to suggest life in his otherwise frozen expression. Even Ken’s eyes seemed faded and grey. Daisuke found himself wishing, for what must have been the one thousandth time, that he could somehow see behind those eyes to what was really going on in Ken’s head.

The Digital World was pulling away. That was the long and the short of it. It was pulling away and leaving the very children it had drafted to save itself behind.

_Behind and alone._

It was no secret that their digimon partners could no longer maintain their rookie or in-training forms while in the human world, not even Wormmon or Gatomon. Daisuke could not remember the last time he had even seen Chibimon. And while on one level he understood that Chibimon and Chibomon were one and the same, Daisuke found he still missed the tiny blue dragon-like digimon who had once been his only confidant and closest friend. Add to that that there was no longer any guarantee that the digital gate would open, even when called up by the second generation digidestined and it was understandable that all the digidestined found themselves on edge.

Sure, Koushiro might believe that he could explain it all with varying dimensions, time flow, invariance, covariance, entanglement and equilibration, all things to which Daisuke willingly admitted to having no real concept. But none of that made what was happening any less terrible.

None of it made what the Digital World was taking away from them any less important.

It was starting to snow in earnest now and neither boy had bothered to bring an umbrella. If they did not leave soon, they would both find themselves cold _and_ wet. Daisuke did not mind much. His parents’ apartment was a five minute jog away. But Ken would have to ride the train all the way back to Tamachi. There wasn’t any reason to make his trip more unpleasant than necessary.

Daisuke stood up from the bench, grabbing the duffle bag with their digimon and balancing it carefully over one shoulder before offering a hand to Ken. “Come on, it’s cold,” he told the older digidestined.

Ken shook his head at the familiar words, rising to his feet easily and without Daisuke’s aid. Daisuke only laughed. He was far too used to Ken’s innate stubbornness to bother taking offense.

They wound their way through the remainder of the quiet park. Despite what Ken had to say on the matter, Daisuke had yet to see so much as another soul and for just a moment, it seemed as if the two of them might truly be alone in the world.

Daisuke was not going to think about why that idea made him so very happy.

Soon though, the noise of cars and buses and people and life began to intrude on Daisuke’s little reverie. He could see the gate marking the park’s front entrance and, beyond that, traffic moving along the bustling street. It would be only seconds before he and Ken stepped out of the park and into the flow of people.

Rush hour must have started early as people left work, hurrying home in hopes of beating the worst of the weather. Upon immediately exiting the park, the boys found themselves returned, once again, to the real world and the sounds and sights and _movement_ that it brought with it. Daisuke found it painfully disappointing.

Despite what Ken would invariably think, it had not been a premeditated idea. Not really. When they had been walking through the park, Daisuke had truly had every intention of staying with Ken only until their usual corner, at which point he would rouse Chibomon, they would say their goodbyes and then each go their separate ways, he to his parents’ apartment and Ken to the train station.

Much as they had done a hundred different times before.

But this time, Daisuke made no move to wake his sleeping digimon. Instead, he found himself reaching out to grab Ken’s hand, offering no explanation, but pulling the older boy with him in the direction of his own home.

“Daisuke?” It was easy to hear the confusion in Ken’s voice, “Wait,” he asked, “Stop.”

Ken tugged at his captured hand, “I’m going to miss my train,” he reminded Daisuke, twisting, pulling against Daisuke’s grip even as he was led down the street and away from the train station, but Daisuke refused to let go.

Daisuke could feel Ken’s anxiety starting to build, his palm growing slick with sweat even as his voice dropped, falling to a panicked whisper.

“People are staring at us.”

Something about Ken’s pained tone made Daisuke stop. He led Ken out of the flow of pedestrians and over to the relative dryness of a coffee shop awning, releasing his hand as requested. Daisuke sighed, watching as Ken began rubbing the hand like it had been injured.

“Were do you think you were going?” Ken finally asked, taking out a handkerchief and using it to wipe his hands. Ken had spoken softly, even kindly, but Daisuke could tell he was angry. Daisuke frowned, shrugging his shoulders.

“I was taking you home with me,” Daisuke admitted, offering a small smile in penitence. Ken sighed, looking away.

“Daisuke…” he hedged, his eyes falling closed even as he leaned his head back against the brick wall of the coffee shop. He almost seemed to be praying for patience, “I can’t,” he told the younger Digidestined, explaining, “There’s school, my parents…”

Daisuke shrugged again in response. Of course he had not thought about these things. He had not really thought about anything at all. All Daisuke knew was something, buried deep within his gut, had warned him against leaving the ex-Kaiser alone. And Daisuke was the sort to trust his gut, even over reason.

“Daisuke?” Chibomon’s tiny voice drew Daisuke’s attention back to the duffle bag still hanging over his shoulder. He pulled the bag around, opening the zipper the rest of the way and lifting the flap. Two sets of digimon eyes were staring up at him nervously, expectantly.

Daisuke put a finger to his lips to shush the inevitable barrage of questions before they had a chance to start. He tucked the flap back into place, then peeked over at Ken, who, rather than paying attention, was frowning at his wristwatch.  

“Ken?” Daisuke asked, his voice uncertain.

Ken glanced up. It was easy to see that he was turning Daisuke’s unspoken request over in his mind even as he looked away again, his eyes flitting back and forth with the movement of pedestrians along the sidewalk. After a long minute, he finally sighed, looking to Daisuke again before admitting, “It’s getting busy.”

Daisuke had to bite back his grin at Ken’s simple statement of fact. The dark-haired boy had all but asked to be persuaded which meant that, _really_ , he had already made up his mind. Knowing that was enough to make Daisuke want to whoop out loud.

“There’s no one home tonight,” Daisuke told him, taking care to modulate his tone into one less cocky and therefore less likely to annoy Ken, “My parents are up in Sapporo and Jun’s staying with a friend.” Ken frowned.

“I can get us up in time for you to take the early train back to Tamachi,” Daisuke swore, unable to keep the hopeful lilt out of his voice entirely. But Ken only shrugged, not entirely convinced.

“I’ll call your mom,” Daisuke offered, “I know she’ll say yes,” he promised, before tacking on a, “She likes me,” with a knowing look and a self-confident grin.

Ken let out a short, “Hn,” but otherwise did not bother to argue with the younger boy’s assessment of Ichijouji Rika’s marked partiality. It would have been pointless anyway. They both knew the truth.

Daisuke waited, watching Ken, even as Ken watched the snow falling heavily now around their little safe haven. Finally, Ken pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against, shaking his head as he pulled his coat tight around himself.

 “Aright, fine,” was all Ken said.

Daisuke smiled at Ken’s simple assent, quickly re-zipping the bag that contained their digimon and adjusting it so it hung across his shoulder before motioning for Ken to follow him home.

He did his best not to dwell on the fact that the emotion he was left feeling was not that of happiness, as he had expected, but rather, one of open, burning relief.

It was enough that Daisuke knew he had been given a reprieve. He would not insist on knowing from what.

\--------------------------------------------------

**JUNE**

**Present Day**

Yamato’s jaw ached. It always seemed to ache. It was one of the more conspicuous consequences of him grinding his teeth, something he tended to do when he was stressed.

And lately, he was always stressed.

“We’ve put him in B-6.”

Yamato frowned at the files open on the desk in front of him, but offered his fellow officer a nod of acknowledgement. He did not ask who. After all, he’d given the order to go and pick Daisuke up himself.

What Yamato did find himself wanting to ask was how the other keeper of friendship had reacted when he realized that the officers had come, this time, for him. Had he seemed worried? Confused? Annoyed?

What had he been thinking was they led him away? Had the younger man understood immediately what the officers, Yamato, had really hoped to achieve? Did he suspect that he wasn’t Yamato’s true target? That he never really had been? Did he know that it had only been the dark haired man that Yamato had hoped to rattle, to hurt?

And if he did, Yamato wondered if Daisuke would, could ever be talked into forgiving him after all of this came to its awful, increasingly inevitable conclusion. Would Yamato ever have the courage to accept it if he did? Or worse, if he didn’t?

Yamato sighed. There was no point on dwelling on any of that now. Doing so certainly would not change the future. Besides, Yamato knew that this wasn’t a fight he was capable of winning approached it only half-heartedly.

He gathered together the images he had spread across his work area, tucking them neatly into their case file before standing and walking over to the steel grey cabinet standing against the far wall. Without even thinking, he pulled open the top drawer and began thumbing through its contents removing first one file, then another and another, stacking each, in turn, on top of the cabinet.

It was only when he got to Ichijouji Rika’s file that he found himself hesitating. He pulled the file part of the way out before shaking his head and returning it to the cabinet. Some things were better left unsaid. Especially if he had any hope of getting Daisuke to talk to him.

Finished removing files, Yamato did a quick count to assure himself that he had them all, then tucked them under one arm and headed out of the glorified conference room that was doubling as their make-shift base of operations and began his trek from the annex to the main building.

Of course, Yamato found himself thinking sarcastically, they would have to have put Daisuke in an interrogation room located all the way across the large police campus. Never mind, that was where _all_ the interrogation rooms were situated. Yamato did his best to ignore the sweat trickling down his back has he strode across the concrete courtyard in the muggy June heat. The truth was that Yamato was glad there would not be any reasonable excuses for one of the OSM officers to just happen by the room in question.

Not with what he was considering doing, anyway.

Yamato pulled open the door, biting back his sigh of relief when he was hit by the blast of escaping air-conditioning. He shot a smile and a nod towards the young woman working the front desk, unable to hide his amusement when she ducked her head, bushing. Despite what Taichi might have to say on the matter, the old Ishida charm was not completely dead and still very, very useful. She buzzed him into the back without even asking to see his ID.

Thankfully, the interrogation rooms were set close to the front of the building, the thinking being that less was more when it came to dragging potentially unwilling and usually unhappy interviewees through the maze of interlocking offices, conference rooms and halls that made up the main NPA building. Yamato added his stack of case files, growing heavier by the minute, to the list of reasons he was happy for this particularly insightful bit of architectural preplanning. Thankfully, he was able to find the room labeled B-6 with ease.

It was only when he was face to face with the door to the interrogation room that he once again found himself thinking about Daisuke. Yamato shook his head, unable to stop himself from grinding his teeth even as he tried to reassure himself that he had done the right thing in bringing Daisuke here. Yamato shook his head, reminding himself that what was done, was done and there would be not changing it now. With that thought still ringing in his head, Yamato pushed the door open and strode into the room.

Daisuke was sitting on the far side of the table, his forehead resting against folded arms. He did not bother to look up when Yamato opened the door but spoke, “I don’t care what you say or do. I don’t know anything.”

Yamato held back a chuckle at Daisuke’s show of bravado, unable, for a moment, to differentiate between the 24 year old man sitting before him and the 11 year old kid in his memories. Yamato let the stack of case files he was holding fall to the table with a thud, unable to keep from frowning when Daisuke flinched.

“Don’t worry,” Yamato assured him, “I don’t intend to beat a confession out of you.” Yamato smiled when Daisuke’s eyes flashed up his own, surprised, it seemed, to discover that it was the blonde digidestined with him in the interrogation room rather than the officers from earlier. But the moment was fleeting. Daisuke quickly hid his face again, refusing to answer or even further acknowledge Yamato’s presence.

Yamato frowned when he realized how much the younger man’s dismissal stung.

“Hell,” Yamato continued, trying to lighten the dark mood, “Even if I wanted to, they really frown on that kind of stuff nowadays,” he shook his head, explaining off-handedly, “You know, politics.” At least that made Daisuke look up again, but it was only to glare at Yamato’s nonchalance. Yamato shrugged, choosing to answer his silence with silence.

Yamato found himself strangely proud of Daisuke’s resolve. There was a maturity to Daisuke that had aged him beyond his years. Certainly, Yamato thought, beyond that of his own brother Takeru and the younger blond’s seeming urge to revel in all things egocentric.

Had it been Ken’s influence? Had it been Ken’s _fault_? Yamato found himself strangely unsettled by the thought.

Yamato took a couple of folding chairs from where they stood leaning against the far wall, shaking them out and placing one near Daisuke and the other about a half meter behind him before sitting in the first and propping his feet up on the second. Daisuke watched it all, without comment, even when Yamato leaned back and closed his eyes, feigning sleep, determined to wait the younger man out.

Yamato really  _was_ almost asleep by the time Daisuke finally spoke up.

“What do you think you trying to prove?” Daisuke asked. The question was not nearly as accusatory as Yamato had expected. In fact, more than anything, Daisuke sounded exhausted.

Yamato fought to keep his face relaxed, neutral, to keep Daisuke from knowing just how deeply the simple question had affected him. He waited until he was certain he could trust his voice before answering as lightly as he could, “Don’t you know?” Yamato opened his eyes only long enough to judge Daisuke’s response, being careful to shut them again before he found himself sucked into Daisuke’s obvious pain. He let the younger man sit quietly, thinking without interruption for as long as he needed. It was a long time before Daisuke answered.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

Yamato barely caught the muted words, and yet, they managed to almost destroy him.

Still, Yamato pushed the pain aside, focusing instead on the tiny opening Daisuke had inadvertently offered him.

Yamato sat up, angling his body so that he now faced Daisuke before taking the top folder off of the stack of case files and placing it between them both. He pulled out a photograph of the victim, studying it for a few moments before turning it and sliding it closer to Daisuke.

“Tsukada Nao,” Yamato informed the younger man. Daisuke’s eyes flashed to the photograph before darting back away. Yamato immediately grabbed the second case file, tossing the first on the chair where his feet had been resting.

“Nawabe Ryoko,” he said, pulling out a second photograph and sliding it over towards Daisuke, one hand already reaching for the third case file even as the other moved this one aside.

“Katsushika Eri,” Yamato stated as he removed the third woman’s picture. This time though, he did not immediately push it towards Daisuke. Instead, he seemed to be studying it himself as he explained, “I was actually going over her file when Minamoto came in to tell me you’d arrived.” Yamato frowned, remembering.

“We don’t really have a lot of background on her,” he admitted, finally handing the photograph to Daisuke who held it awkwardly for a second before setting it down with the others. “We couldn’t find anything in the way of living family. No one’s even come forward to claim her ashes. She lived alone, well, just her and her cat,” Yamato continued, saying, “Pretty thing—the cat I mean, and sweet. It was adopted by one of the girls in the typing pool. Anyway,” Yamato shook his head as he remembered, “Katsushika worked in an office downtown, but all her coworkers could really tell us was that she was a very private person.”

Daisuke was refusing to look at the photograph, but something told Yamato that his words were not falling on to deaf ears.

“It was her supervisor that actually reported her missing,” Yamato explained, “It was apparently the first time she’d ever missed work and wasn’t picking up her phone. He thought something was wrong and called the local station.”

“Good thing, I guess,” Yamato admitted, shrugging, “Otherwise, I don’t know when she’d been found.”

Daisuke sighed, looking pointedly away. Still, Yamato could not help but notice the way Daisuke’s middle finger kept tap-tap-tapping against the edge of Katsushika’s photograph. Clearly the younger man was thinking about what he had heard.

Yamato leaned forward, gathering the three photographs and sliding each back into the relative safety of their respective case files, allowing the room to lapse into another heavy silence.

Again, it was Daisuke who finally broke it. “I want to ask you a question.”

Daisuke’s subdued statement nearly made Yamato jump. He set the three case files he’d been holding back on the chair before looking up at Daisuke, nodding.

“Why are you so sure it’s him?” Daisuke did not bother with clarifying who the ‘him’ was in this case. There wasn’t any point, “I mean, it can’t just be Mrs. Ichijouji, right?” Daisuke looked to Yamato, his eyes oddly hopeful even has his lips remained pursed tight.

Yamato sighed.  He knew he was sailing through dangerous territory. It wasn’t that he was necessarily opposed to tipping his hand to Daisuke. On the contrary, he had had Daisuke brought in with precisely this in mind. Still, now that the time had come, Yamato found himself hesitating.

There was no doubt that Daisuke’s loyalties still lay with Ken. And somehow Yamato knew intuitively that no amount of explaining would ever or could ever change that. So was it really that smart of an idea to spread the entirety of his case out before Daisuke, knowing as he did that the younger man would never willingly give him what it was that he really wanted? What he needed?

Of course not.

But then Yamato understood that this might also be his only chance to actually make even moderate headway with the younger digidestined. If nothing else, putting a little doubt into Daisuke’s mind might be all it took to push Ken into making a mistake. And that’s all Yamato really needed.

Just one little mistake.

And then it would not matter what Daisuke was or was not willing to offer him.

His mind made up, Yamato began thumbing through the stack of case files still sitting on the table, finally settling on the file detailing Handa Narumi’s murder. He opened it, flipping past the stock photo of Handa and then the crime scene photographs before coming to a series that had been taken from grainy surveillance camera footage. Yamato considered each of the surveillance camera photographs in turn before finally picking one and passing it over to Daisuke.

Daisuke looked the photograph in front of him carefully. “Wha—“ he started to ask, but Yamato silenced him with a single finger held aloft. The blond was already digging through his stack of case files again.

This time, Yamato pulled out the file for the fifth victim, again flipping past multiple photos before removing a single black and white shot. This one had been at an intersection and the angle suggested the camera stood high above the sidewalk. He passed it to Daisuke before reaching for Tsukada Nao’s file  on the chair, flipping though its contents before removing a third, similar photograph and handing it, too, to Daisuke.

Daisuke studied the three photographs carefully. Each showed a similar figure, tall, thin, dark haired. In two of the three, the man appeared to be carrying something but the low resolution made it impossible to clearly identify the object. Nevertheless, Daisuke found himself swallowing dryly.

Daisuke shook his head, pushing the photos back towards Yamato, “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked. When Yamato did not answer, Daisuke heard himself continue, “That could be any of a hundred or even a thousand different people. I can’t even tell if they’re all the same person.”

Still, despite the strident words, Daisuke found himself reaching out to pull the photos close once more, unable to keep himself from looking at the central figure in each again and again and again.

Yamato ignored Daisuke’s statement, asking instead, “What does he take?” Daisuke glanced up at the blond keeper of friendship, his eyes inquisitive. Yamato tapped on one of the two photographs where the figure could been seen carrying something. Daisuke set the one he had been looking at down and picked up the photograph Yamato had indicated, studying it closely.

“Here,” Yamato continued, opening Tsukada’s file for a third time. He pulled out one of the police photos, sliding it towards Daisuke who only glanced at it briefly before looking away, his normally tanned face pinched and colorless. Yamato frowned when he realized the majority of the photo was taken up by the woman’s dead and exposed body. He had long since grown inured to even the most graphic of images, but, clearly, Daisuke possessed no such experience.

“Here,” Yamato stated again, this time using a flipped over surveillance photograph to cover the worst of the police photo before indicating where he wanted Daisuke to look. Daisuke’s fingers reached out, tracing the circular indentation in the woman’s carpet once before pulling back, his eyes turning away, pained.

“Something was sitting there,” Yamato stated the obvious, “We asked some of her friends, family, but no one could think of what it could be.” Daisuke only nodded in answer.

“It wasn’t small,” Yamato explained, “But it wasn’t really large either.” When Daisuke only nodded again, Yamato continued, “Twelve, maybe fifteen centimeters,” he guessed, “It would had to have been relatively heavy. It had been at least two days when she was found and the place where whatever it was had set was still clearly visible.”

Daisuke closed his eyes, fighting back the boiling waves of nausea that were threatening to overcome him. He knew what had caused that mark. He knew it without a doubt, almost as soon as he had seen the image. His mind has immediately flitted back to that morning and Ken’s glib, even humored remark.

_Devil’s Ivy._

The image of Ken, lovingly tending to his would-be garden, his face fixed in that ever-present small smile, exploded behind Daisuke’s closed eyes even as his mind spun, trying to control his outward response. If nothing else, Daisuke was grateful that Yamato seemed to be interpreting his heartfelt revulsion as distress over the poor woman’s dead body, rather than the truth.

In honesty, Daisuke had felt the dread pooling almost as soon as he glanced at the very first surveillance photo. There was something in them, something that was quintessentially Ken, and it declared itself, even in the dark, grainy images. Maybe it was the way he held his head. Maybe it was the purposefulness of his frozen stride. Whatever the reason, Daisuke had recognized the dark-haired genius almost immediately.

“I don’t know,” Daisuke heard his voice answer. At least his head seemed to be capable of working. Even if his heart was in the process of shattering, “I mean, that could be anything, a thousand different anythings.” Then for good measure, “Were any of the, you know, _others_ missing something?”

Yamato frowned, trying to find the words to explain how he was certain _something_ had been taken from every victim, that that was usually the way these things worked, when he had _nothing,_ no _proof_ of anything going missing from the other homes. Not even one

Sure, Hira Chinami’s sister had sworn that the little hothouse plant that usually set on her dining room table had disappeared, but really, judging by the shape of the peace lily the woman had kept in her front entryway, the damn thing had probably died and been tossed out with the combustibles months earlier. Besides, what could the killer have possibly wanted with a half dead plant?

Still, Yamato knew it was there. Something he had overlooked. Something the families had over looked. If for no other reason than because, after having watched hundreds of hours of surveillance video taken from dozens of different cameras stationed near where each of the murders occurred, he had managed to find the same man, a man that could very possibly be Ichijouji Ken, three times over, twice clearly carrying _something_ , God only knew what, through Odaiba’s all too familiar streets.

Yamato sighed. There was little point in trying to win Daisuke over with conjecture, of that, he was certain. The only things that Yamato could hope to use to win over the red-headed man at this point were facts. And they seemed to be in a perpetually short supply.

Yamato’s phone chose that moment to chime. He pulled it out and flipping it open, scanned the brief text message, unable, despite his training, to completely hide his little smirk of bemusement. That had been quicker than he had even bothered to hope. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, focusing once again on Daisuke.

“Do you remember what you were doing four nights ago?” Yamato asked, switching gears even as he gathered up the photographs that had been lying on the table and slipped each, in turn, into is correct case file.

“Four nights ago?” Daisuke confirmed, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “I don’t know,” he hedged, trying to remember, “Working, I guess.”

“Working?” Yamato echoed, waiting for Daisuke’s nod before continuing, “Do you remember when you got home?”

Daisuke frowned, trying hard to separate that day in his mind from the vague slurry of similar days that had come before it. “It was a little before 11:00,” he finally answered.

“At night?” Yamato questioned again. When Daisuke only nodded for a second time, Yamato pressed him further, “Walk me through your evening.”

Daisuke closed his eyes, trying to picture that evening. The problem was, it wasn’t all that different from most of his evenings, he and Ken having long since settled in to their own version of a homey routine.  

“I worked a double that day,” Daisuke remembered, frowning. He had been working as many extra shifts as he could get his hands on as of late. Things had gotten tight after Ken had quit working, really tight, and sometimes Daisuke even feared that they wouldn’t be able to make the payments on their apartment. And he could not bear the thought of moving. Not now. Not after all of this.

Daisuke found himself wondering, and not for the first time, when the police would give the go-ahead to release Ken’s inheritance, which, in turn, left him feeling oddly guilty.

“I came home,” Daisuke continued, shaking off his guilt, “Fixed us both something to eat, watched a little TV and then we went to bed.” Daisuke could not help tacking on one last, “Like always.”

 “And Ken was at the apartment when you got home,” Yamato confirmed. Daisuke did not directly answer but the ugly look he shot Yamato spoke the truth of his thoughts.

“So you came home,” Yamato reiterated, only to be interrupted by a second chime from his phone. This time, when he stopped to read the message he only shook his head. He sent whoever was on the other end a quick answer before putting the phone back into his pocket with a sigh. Then he offered Daisuke a small smile of apology, returning to the topic at hand, “Do you remember what you had for dinner?”

“Whaa—I don’t know,” Daisuke rolled his eyes at Yamato’s overly detailed line of questioning, “Something simple probably. I don’t remember. I was tired. It was late.”

Yamato nodded, “And Ken ate with you?” he asked, reminding Daisuke, “You said it was late. You’re sure he hadn’t made something, maybe eaten earlier?”

At least Daisuke seemed to find that last bit funny, “Ken doesn’t cook,” he informed the blond man, his voice dry, ”Seriously. You don’t want to even try to eat something Ken cooked. It’s deadly.” Daisuke smiled a little, thinking of the dark haired man and his general ineptness when it came to anything in the kitchen, before remembering both his words and where he was with a frown.

“No,” Daisuke confirmed, his voice curt,”Ken ate with me.” Daisuke’s eyes all but demanded that Yamato make mention of his little slip. But Yamato only nodded, opting not to press Daisuke on the obviously sore point.

“So Ken was there in the apartment with you all night?” Something about the way Daisuke pursed his lips, expelling his heavy breath in a way not unsimilar to a growl told Yamato that his question had somehow managed to hit upon a tender nerve yet again.

“Of course Ken was in the apartment with me,” Daisuke answered tersely, “Ken hasn’t left the apartment in over 3 months,” he grumbled, “Except, of course, when you drag him in here.” There was no mistaking the underlying scorn. Yamato let it, too, pass without comment.

“Alright,” Yamato smiled, hoping to ease the younger man into something at least approaching his earlier calm, “So you came home about 11:00, fixed dinner, ate, watched a little TV,” Yamato waited for Daisuke’s nod before continuing, “Anything else?”

Daisuke picked at the edge of the interrogation room table, thinking hard about that night. It really had been like any other.  He had been exhausted, that’s what he remembered more than anything else; so exhausted that he had actually considered stopping by the convenience store near the train station and picking up a couple of cheap bento boxes. But in the end, it wasn’t worth the money or the time and, so, he’d just gone back to the apartment he shared with Ken. After all, Daisuke could barely get Ken to eat _his_ food. He would never have been able to get him to eat something that had been sitting on a 7-Eleven shelf for who knows how many hours.

Daisuke tried to remember Ken that night. Had he been any different? Not in any way that Daisuke could pin-point. Ken had seemed happy to have Daisuke home. He had even made a half-hearted attempt to pretend to want the yakisoba Daisuke had thrown together. Daisuke smiled as he finally remembered what it was he had made for their dinner. Ken had stood at the counter, watching Daisuke with a warm look in his eyes. Afterwards, he hadn’t even really complained when Daisuke switched on the television and started watching some late night something or other.

Ken had been the first to get up and go to their bed, but, then, that wasn’t strange either. He had already been asleep when Daisuke joined him a half hour, maybe 45 minutes later. Daisuke remembered thinking it was the good kind of sleep, the deep, calm sleep that Ken seemed so rarely to get these days. Daisuke had been so very careful not to wake Ken as he slipped under the covers in the midnight-dark room, snuggling in as closely as he dared.

Daisuke must have been asleep within minutes, maybe even seconds.

The rest of the night remained obliterated by the heavy shadows left only by exhausted sleep.

“Do you remember anything else?” Yamato’s repeated question instantly brought Daisuke back into the present. He frowned, shaking his head no even as Yamato’s cell phone chimed for a third time. This time Yamato chose to ignore it.

“Alright then,” Yamato stood up, stretching, “Come on. I’ll get you out of here,” he promised. Daisuke’s head shot up with ill-disguised surprise.

“You’re letting me go?” he asked, “Already?” Yamato was unable to contain his short laugh.

“Hey,” Yamato teased, for an instant, almost feeling like they were once again just a couple of kids doing their best to figure out just what it was that the world expected of them, “You didn’t _really_ think I would try to beat a confession out of you, did you?”

Daisuke frowned, oddly annoyed by what he heard as Yamato’s taunting tone.

“Besides,” Yamato continued, fighting to urge to reach out and ruffle Daisuke’s wild hair for what something warned him might just be the very last time, “There’s someone out front who, _apparently_ , has been demanding your _immediate_ return.” Yamato paused has his phone chimed for a forth and then, almost instantly, a fifth time. Yamato pulled out the phone and scrolled through the messages before allowing himself an annoyed hum. Putting the phone away yet again, he opined,”I think we should probably go and put them out of the misery before things get any worse.”

 The implication hit Daisuke forcefully.

“Who?” he demanded, “Jun?”  Could she have already heard what had happened? Would she have dropped everything just to come to his aid? As crazy as she could be when they were kids, would grown-up Jun really risk making trouble at a police station?

 Yamato’s first response to Daisuke’s questions was to smile, a compassionate smile, but something about the set of the older digidestined’s mouth left Daisuke feeling strangely cold, especially when Yamato turned away before answering him.

“No,” Yamato explained shortly, gathering together his case files before walking towards the door, “It would seem that, this time, your would-be rescuer is _Ken_.” Yamato opened the door, motioning with his head for Daisuke to exit, “Apparently, a very irate Ken,” he continued, “A very demanding Ken. A very _forceful_ Ken.” There was no denying the small twang of self-satisfaction underlying Yamato’s words, “And he has made it _very_ clear that he would like his Daisuke returned. _Immediately_.”

And for not the first time that morning, Daisuke found himself wanting to run.

* * *

 


	6. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Gigantic APOLOGIES for taking so long to get this out. I swear I did not intend for it to turn out this way. Just ask Ken. *winks*
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Never was. Probably never will be. *grins*

**JUNE**

“Keys, catch.” Yamato did not have time to react before the objects in question landed with a crash on the keyboard in front of him. He picked them up, shooting a scowl over his shoulder at Minamoto, the man who had thrown them.

“I’m leaving,” Minamoto offered in answer to Yamato’s ugly look, continuing, “I’ve locked the room, but I thought you might need to get back in later.”

Yamato frowned. Locked? Did that mean that everyone else had already taken off? Again?

“What time is it?” Yamato asked, unable to hide his annoyance with the other taskforce members.

Minamoto smiled, allowing Yamato a moment to enjoy his little fit of pique before answering, “About twenty after ten.” He was unable to keep from snickering at Yamato’s shock.

Yamato squinted at this watch in the dim light of the media room, sighing when he realized that the hands were clearly pointing to the six and three, not unlike they had been the last time he checked. He pulled the watch off his wrist, giving it a good shake then tapping it once, twice, then three times and twisting the little knob before bringing it close to his ear to listen for the tell-tale ticking. Nothing.

Yamato frowned, tossing the watch on to the table with a disgusted grunt before finally admitting, “It’s dead,” much to Minamoto’s amusement.

“Well, now. That’s some Class A detective work there, boss,” the younger man smirked, teasing, “Or, rather, I would say that, if I had even the slightest idea if you were actually talking about your watch or your social life.”

Yamato rolled his eyes. “Oh, har-har-har,” he intoned, shaking his head. He turned back to his work, but not before flipping Minamoto off, which only made the younger man laugh that much harder.

In spite of Minamoto’s tendency to be sarcastic, Yamato found that he really liked the younger man.

If asked, Yamato might even admit that, while the distinct _lack_ of any filter between Minamoto’s brain and his mouth had, at first, been something of a shock after nearly six years of working amongst the ambition-driven career-minded set, Yamato had come to find his blunt honesty refreshing. It did not hurt Yamato’s opinion of the man that he had shown, repeatedly, that he had the intelligence and the wherewithal necessary to cash any check his mouth might write, smart-ass or otherwise.

It may not have been official, but Yamato considered Minamoto his second in command.

He trusted him.

“Who’s on surveillance tonight?” Yamato asked, not sparing Minamoto so much as a glance over his shoulder as he did so. Not that they younger man had expected that he would.

“Ando and Iseki are out there now,” Minamoto informed Yamato, his voice business-like, almost bordering on curt, “Kimio and Fukuda are set to relieve them in a few hours.” Yamato nodded to show he was listening but, otherwise, did not respond. Minamoto watched as Yamato rewound the lobby surveillance tape from that morning for what he figured was probably the one thousandth time that day before stopping it and then pressing play, yet again.

Minamoto sighed, finding himself inexplicably frustrated by the blond man’s strange persistence. “You don’t _actually_ think he’s stupid enough to risk doing something right _now_ , do you?” he asked, his voice automatically taking on the hard edge of a dubious interrogator.

But despite the disrespectful intonation, Yamato found himself more amused than annoyed by the younger officer’s frank insubordination. It reminded him of his early days in the Digital World, when he and Taichi had often found themselves disagreeing loudly, even violently, on just about _everything_.

Hell, in his darker moments, Yamato sometimes wondered if his brain was even capable of functioning properly without someone, _anyone,_ throwing at least a _smidgen_ of antagonism his way.

Besides, if he were trying to be honest, Yamato might admit that it was his own tendency towards disproportionate defensiveness that _could_ have been at the root of some of those childhood fights, even if Yamato still believed that _many_ of them were due entirely to Taichi’s naturally unhinged impetuousness.

Many, most.  Same difference.

Nevertheless, after years of hard work and practice, Yamato was _largely_ able to consider Minamoto’s question calmly and carefully, searching deep within his mind for the words necessary to reassure Minamoto, while still explaining to his most trusted officer what it was that he was trying to accomplish and why, it seemed, that he felt it was so important.

After all, there was a method to this madness. Yamato knew it, could feel it, deep within his gut, even if he found himself struggling to define it.

But Yamato also knew that there was just cause for Minamoto’s concern. They had been at this for more than a year now and the longer and longer things kept on this way, without resolution, the tighter and tighter their budget became and the less and less Yamato’s superiors seemed to want to trust his judgment. Even now, Yamato found himself having to fight, tooth and nail, for resources, opportunities, approvals that, three, four months earlier, would have been a given.

So sure, Yamato understood Minamoto’s apprehension. He could see better than anyone that, with nothing definitive to show for their effort, hell, with nothing he could point to to even the _suggest_ a modicum of progress, paying officers overtime just to sit around outside an apartment building all night and all day didn’t seem like it made a lot of sense. Still…

“It’s not about stupidity,” Yamato finally admitted, more to himself than to the still listening Minamoto. “It’s never been about stupidity with Ichijouji Ken.”

Yamato sighed, stopping the tape with a shake of his head only to restart it, almost subconsciously, a few seconds later, his eyes narrowing as they resumed tracking the thin figure back and forth across the monitor. It was only after several long minutes, when Minamoto had all but made up his mind to leave, that Yamato spoke up again.

“No,” He continued, his grey-lit frown ghosting back at Minamoto via the unused monitor on his left, “What’ll mess Ichijouji up, what has _always_ messed Ichijouji up,” Yamato insisted, “even when we were kids, is his anger.” Yamato turned and offered Minamoto a thin, wincing smile and a small nod as clarification before turning back to his surveillance footage, “Ichijouji is too much of a thinker, a planner to just do something _stupid._ But his anger--”  

“You knew him,” Minamoto surmised, correctly, if only now for the first time, “before this.”

Outwardly, Yamato’s face was blank, but inwardly, the image of the Digimon Kaiser rose, unbidden, in his mind. Strange how, even now, so many years later, just thinking of the spiky haired pre-teen left Yamato feeling unnerved and exposed.

Dirty.

The fact of the matter was, when the Digital World had called up its chosen children the second time, this time not to fight another evil digimon or Dark Master, but rather, a flesh and blood child, nothing less than a partnered digidestined, Yamato had found himself shocked, horrified, even sickened by Ichijouji’s aptitude for viciousness and depravity.

And yet, he had been confused, his resolve damaged by his own innate, if immature, trust for a fellow human being.

Ken’s cruelty had been more than Yamato’s then-young mind had been capable of completely understanding, at least in any concrete way. And Yamato had been as happy as any of the other digidestined to believe that friendship, that Daisuke, had _cured_ Ichijouji of all his _inhumanity._

But had it?

“Hm,” Yamato grunted in affirmation before clarifying, “In a way.” Yamato watched as the Ken on the video raised his fist, striking the wall beside the front desk with plaster-cracking force before resuming, once again, his agitated pacing back and forth across the NPA lobby. Yamato knew from hours of watching this very tape that Ken’s movement would only stop when the door on the far right side of the image opened and Daisuke came rushing out.

“It was a long time ago,” Yamato continued, “I guess I thought, or hoped, we’d both become different people.” Yamato shrugged, turning off the surveillance tape for a second time, this time ejecting it before turning in his chair to hand it up to Minamoto.

“And now?” Minamoto asked, accepting the tape and tucking it under an arm with an open air of casual indifference.

“Now?” Yamato stood up, cringing at the way his shoulders cracked loudly after a long day spent hunched in a darkened room. “Now, I’m going home.” He offered the younger man a small, self-depreciating smile before grabbing the keys and his watch from the desk with a shake of his head.

“Call me if anything happens.”

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

“Digi-port open.” The insistence in Daisuke’s voice cut all the way through their small apartment. It made Ken flinch even as he found himself mouthing softly, almost silently to the darkened room in which he lay, “Two thirty six.”

Ken scowled. He did not know how much more of this he could take without screaming. His always somewhat tenuous grip on his sanity felt like it was slipping further and further with each tick of his wristwatch’s second hand.

“Digi-port open.” Daisuke had been at it more than two hours now, leaving only his disembodied voice and the faint light that managed to spill down the hallway and into the darkened living room as proof that Ken had not been totally abandoned in the world.

“Two thirty seven,” Ken quietly informed the cracked screen of their television before looking away again. The television had been a housewarming present from his parents when he and Daisuke had first purchased the apartment five, almost six years earlier. Ken found himself hard pressed now to recall how, exactly, it had become damaged, but, remembering the look of horror on Daisuke’s face when he had heard the tell-tale sound glass fracturing, Ken knew, somehow, that it was himself who must have been to blame.

Daisuke must have understood too because it had been shortly after that that he had retreated into the back room that had once doubled as both their guest room and Ken’s home office to begin his irrational quest.

“Digi-port _open_.”

“Two thirty eight,“ Ken counted, flinching.

He refused to allow his voice to rise above any but the barest breath. Somehow Ken knew that if it did, if he let down his guard for even one second, it would destroy what little control he still managed to wield over the insanity boiling deep inside of him.

“Digi-port open!” Daisuke continued.

“Two thirty nine,” Ken sighed.

No, all it would take was one seemingly inconsequential misstep and Ken was sure that he would find himself unable to keep from screaming and screaming and screaming until their neighbors cowered in their own homes, fearful of the monster. Unable to keep from screaming and screaming until the sound of his voice drowned out all others in the city. Ken was certain that he could, that he _would,_ scream until the very world itself cracked apart, almost as broken, as fragmented, as he was.

Or perhaps, just until Daisuke was forced to give up on this ridiculous farce and come back to sit with Ken, to squeeze his hand tightly, to smile and say that everything was going to be alright, that they would fix it. Or, rather, that this _could_ be fixed.

“Digi-port open.”

“Two hundred forty.” _Fixed_. As if that was an option. As if it ever had been. Ken shook his head at his own idiocy, a small, self-depreciating smile twisting his lips.

Only a fool would lie here and hope that there was a chance that that this, or, more importantly, that he, Ken, could be _fixed_. Ken rolled over, turning his back to the broken television in favor of studying the weave of the couch’s fabric.

 “Digiport open!”

“Two forty one,” he whispered, his fingers running back and forth across the nubbly upholstery fabric, distracted. No. This time he had finally managed to ruin things completely. Even Daisuke would have to admit now that he knew Ken was crazy. Damaged beyond repair.

“Digi-port open.” Ken could hear the edges of Daisuke’s voice starting to fray. It gave him slim hope that Daisuke’s little bout of optimism-induced insanity could not last for that much longer. Never mind through the night.

“Two forty two,” he closed his eyes, unable to keep himself from muttering the words.

There was no denying that there had been a part of Ken that urged him to follow Daisuke, to take up his D3 and, just once more, beg, plead, _demand_ entrance to the Digital World.

“Digi-port _open!_ ”

“Two forty three.” But no. Ken knew better than anyone else what a waste of what little time they likely had left that would be. After all, Ichijouji Ken was nothing if not a realist. In fact, he had always prided himself on his ability to see the truth even in so-called-reality.

And the truth was that the Digital World had turned its back on the Digi-destined years earlier. It certainly would not reach out to them now.

Never mind _their_ need.

Never mind Daisuke’s determination. Willpower alone had never possessed much in the way of power outside of the overwrought imaginations of a handful of anime producers, manga artists and movie directors. Ken put about as much stock in willpower as he did karma or positivity.

 “Digi-port open.”

“Two forty four.” Still, Ken found himself strangely impressed by the unsullied frankness of Daisuke’s plan. Or rather, by what he understood of it, anyway.

Was it irrational? Sure. Illogical? Indisputably.

But for a Daisuke plan, it was surprisingly complete, even in its simplicity.

It went like this: when the man you love, and despite everything, Ken was certain that Daisuke loved him, manages to fuck both of your lives beyond all recognition, just escape to another fucking world.  _Fucking brilliant_.

“Digi-port open.”

“Two forty five.” Brilliant, and entirely, emphatically, _undeniably_ impossible.

But Daisuke had never been the sort that allowed impossible to stop him. Daisuke was a _believer_. A believer in earnestness, in hard work, in the power of optimism and friendship and love. Hell, Daisuke was even a believer in the power of belief.

If Ken had ever needed any proof of how utterly pointless such thoughts were, he certainly had it now.

“Digi-port _open_!”

“Two forty six,” Ken sighed.

He had never meant for things to go as far as they did. He had intended for it to be a thought exercise, nothing more. It was just something to keep him from going crazy with boredom when work, life, even Daisuke started pressing in too closely.

But then, at some point, planning had ceased to be enough. It did not matter that his plans seemed flawless, mapped out as they were within his own mind. He wanted to test them, in the real world.  He wanted to know how they stood up against reality, against the tides of humanity.

He wanted to know if he still retained power to control, to subjugate. If it was hidden, protected, deep within himself, or if too many years spent standing next to the light of Motomiya Daisuke had corrupted even the darkness at the very core of his existence.

“Digi-port open.”

“Two forty seven.” Ken had felt so strange, after that first one. He’d felt a completeness he had not felt in years, a completeness he was not even sure he had ever felt before.  The Kaiser had had power, yes, but no Daisuke. Ichijouji Ken had Daisuke, but found himself powerless in the face of others’ expectations.

But now, and for the first time, Ken had both. He had been damn near giddy, or rather, as giddy as he was capable of being. Even Daisuke had remarked on his lighter than usual mood.

“Digi-port open.”

“Two forty eight.” But it did not last.

Before long, it was gnawing away at him once again, the idea that this feeling of power was an illusion, predicated on false assumptions. Nothing more than a fool’s self-aggrandizing dream. After all, what was so damned difficult about doing something when no one else was looking? Hadn’t that been the way it was in the Digital World? Dark towers, dark rings, slave digimon, had it meant anything before Daisuke had landed in his little pet garden, intent on stopping him?

“Digi-port open!”

“Two forty nine.” No. The Kaiser’s power had been in his ability to do these things, even in the face of Daisuke and the other digi-destined’s antagonism. Conquering a new piece of the Digital World, ringing a new digimon, only mattered when they were there to fight back. Otherwise, what was the point?

That had been why he had taken care to make sure the second one looked just like the first. Hell, he would have taken out a full page ad in a major Tokyo newspaper if he thought the police were paying that much attention. It probably would have been easier. Not that he did not appreciate the extra challenge.

As it was, it wasn’t until after the fourth that someone had started putting the pieces together. Never mind the irony behind that someone being Ishida Yamato. That’s just how the universe liked to function.

If Ken had been the sort to believe in destiny, he might have stopped right then and there. But then Ichijouji Ken had never believed in anything as self-indulgent as destiny.

“Digi-port _open_!”

“Two fifty.” His first _real_ mistake had been Ichijouji Rika. He was certain that that had not been planned or even really considered.

Or, to be more precise, Ken was certain that what he remembered of it had not. Ken had been telling the truth when he said that he had no real recollection of that morning beyond stepping off the commuter train two stations early with the intention of stopping by his mother’s home.

The closest he had ever been able to come to remembering was when he dreamed. Sometimes he could almost recall their conversation from that day, could almost remember what it was she had said to him that had jarred him so, infuriated him, but, always, by the time he awoke, the words were gone, leaving behind only a slow burning anger in their wake. It had gotten to the point where he had all but given up sleeping any night through in any semblance of peace.

Still, despite the sleep deprivation and the police questions or their thinly veiled insinuations, Ken could not bring himself to regret his actions. If anything, his mother’s death and the resulting attention had made the game more interesting.

And, really, that’s all he’d ever wanted, as willfully self-destructive as that might seem.

The sound of running water made Ken sit up. He watched, arms wrapped tight around his middle, chin resting against the back of the couch, as Daisuke rinsed out a glass before pouring himself a drink, turning to stare back at Ken as he drank.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Daisuke demanded, frowning. He set the glass back on the kitchen counter with a heavy thump. He was trying to sound angry but something in the rough edge of his voice left Ken believing it was more act than fact. Nevertheless, Ken turned away, unable to keep a small sigh from escaping. He lay back down, frowning at his own image reflecting back at him from the broken television screen before closing his eyes, feigning sleep.

After all, Ken knew better than anyone what anger from Daisuke really meant.

 _Fear_.

Always, only fear.

It had been that way when they had been kids, trapped, as they were, in the roles the Digital World had deigned to thrust upon them. It had been that way years later when Ken had told Daisuke that he was considering moving out, proposing to Miyako, and starting a family. And it was that way now, as Daisuke struggled to come to terms with the _villain_ masquerading as someone he loved.

Ken felt more than saw the kitchen light come on. He could hear Daisuke opening and closing the various cabinets, no doubt looking for something, anything really, to occupy his mind, to distract himself from the ugly truths he had learned earlier that afternoon. After all, Daisuke had never been the sort of person who valued prolonged stillness or the complex thoughts that often came with it.

It was something of a surprise to Ken then when, moments later, the noise stopped, only to be followed by the tips of Daisuke’s warm fingers brushing away the hair hanging limp over Ken’s face.

“Hey,” the strain in Daisuke’s voice was even more noticeable when he spoke softly. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Daisuke promised, “Really.”

Ken bit back a sigh. He was supposed to believe that Daisuke was the one who was sorry? Really?

Ken wondered if there was anyone in the world who could, after learning what Daisuke now knew, actually be capable of still giving a shit about his feelings.

Maybe, he concluded. If there was, Ken supposed that it would be, maybe even had always been, Daisuke.

Still, it wasn’t relief that Ken felt.

Instead, Ken found that he was oddly displeased by the curly headed man’s reaction. Perhaps a part of Ken had always thought that Daisuke would not stoop to forgiving such horrors. That Daisuke, all light and righteousness, should never have allowed something as sentimental as _personal feelings_ to ride roughshod over his sense of truth or honor.

But then it certainly would not be the first time that Ken had been wrong about the red-headed man, or that Daisuke had managed to surprise him.

Not the first, Ken mused silently, but possibly the last? The thought burned, heavy within his chest.

Still, there was no denying that Ken found comfort in Daisuke’s touch. He opened his eyes, looking deep into Daisuke’s wounded ones before offering the younger man a small nod of acknowledgement. Daisuke smiled down on him in return from where he stood, leaning over the back of the couch.

“Your hair’s getting long again,” Daisuke told Ken, his fingers threading lightly though the dark strands, his voice striving yet failing to strike a tone of gentle nonchalance, “I was trying to remember the other night when the last time it was that it had been this long.”

Ken offered a soft hum, but did not bother with more of an answer. It seemed so pointless when they both already knew the truth.

The last time that Ken had worn his hair this long was when they had been kids.

Before they had lost the Digital World.

Before the Digital World had stolen a full half of everything Ken knew himself to be.

Before the Digital World had decided the Digi-destined were no longer worth its empyreal consideration.

“You were right,” Daisuke continued once it became painfully apparent that Ken did not intend to answer, “I couldn’t get the Digital Gate to open.”

The truth in Daisuke’s words hurt Ken more than he cared to admit. He sighed, rolling over to his side, away from Daisuke, opting instead to stare, eyes empty, at their broken television. In the nearly fifteen years that they had known each other, Daisuke had yet to outgrow this, his most exasperating of habits: his insistence on always, needlessly stating the obvious, oblivious of how utterly pointless, how _distasteful,_ such remarks might be.

Daisuke must have sensed Ken’s annoyance because he, too, sighed, before pushing himself up and away from the couch, returning to the relative safety of his kitchen.

The apartment descended into an almost deafening silence, broken only when Daisuke, ever the creature of habit, began prepping their evening meal. Despite everything that had been said that afternoon, or perhaps, _in spite_ of everything that _hadn’t_ been said but, nevertheless, had been heard, Ken found himself unable to keep from smiling at the inescapable certainty of Daisuke’s all too predictable domesticity.

Ken allowed himself to roll back over, shrugging, almost in defiance, at the apartment’s fluorescent lighting before sitting up and turning to watch Daisuke work.

Ken loved watching Daisuke work. He always had. There was something about the single-minded determination that the curly headed man threw into every task, never mind how menial, that fascinated Ken.

It was that same way now, with Daisuke chopping away at a carrot with focused resolve. He did not even look up when Ken rose from the couch, walking over to lean against the far side of the kitchen counter so as to more closely observe the process.

In fact, Daisuke seemed so attentive to his task, so oblivious to Ken’s movement, that it caught Ken completely off his guard when, despite never faltering or even pausing in his actions, Daisuke addressed him.

“I want you to tell me.” Daisuke insisted, his eyes never leaving the cutting board even as he reached into the bowl of vegetables behind him, this time for a cucumber, or perhaps it was a zucchini. Ken had never been entirely confident in his ability to tell the two apart. “I know you’re planning something,” Daisuke continued, “So just tell me.”

Ken watched, silent, as the red-headed man immediately began deftly peeling the vegetable in question, his thumb resting oh-so-casually against the blade of the paring knife as he stripped away the dark green skin with what seemed like almost no effort at all.

Cucumber, Ken decided before changing his mind with a slight shake of his head. No, it was a zucchini.

“Ken…” Daisuke’s voice warned when the dark-haired man failed to answer.

Ken’s eyes shifted away from Daisuke’s hands, studying the mound of julienned carrots that Daisuke had left sitting on the edge of the cutting board for a half second before flitting up to the top of Daisuke’s bent head.

What was it that Daisuke wanted again? Oh yes. He wanted to talk plans. Ken sighed. Just more hashing and then, no doubt, rehashing of the inevitable. Ken couldn’t say he saw the point.

“What is that?” Ken heard himself ask instead, “A zucchini?” Cucumbers always seemed to have that fresh, almost watery scent. Ken couldn’t smell anything.

For a moment it did not seem as if Daisuke planed on acknowledging Ken’s question, his hands continuing their work as if Ken had not spoken. But, after full, long, minute, he set the knife on the counter top, pursing his lips into a thin line of frustration before answering simply, “Yeah.”

It was clear to Ken that Daisuke wanted to say more but was fighting very hard with himself to keep from doing so.

Instead, Daisuke picked up a larger knife and began slicing the zucchini in question into small rounds before quartering them and then using the back edge of the knife to scrape them into a pile next to his carrots before reaching back to the bowl behind him again, this time for an eggplant.

Daisuke’s knife hovered over the neck of the eggplant, his hand trembling ever so slightly for a moment or two before something inside of him finally seemed to give. Instead of cutting into the vegetable, Daisuke set the knife down, letting go of the eggplant and turning so that his back was to Ken before asking plaintively, “Can we talk just about this? Please? We need to talk about this.”

Daisuke’s hands were up, rubbing at his temples and Ken could tell by the electric crackle running under his voice that he was fighting hard to keep his emotions in check. He was trying. Because he knew how much Ken hated that sort of thing, he really was trying. And Ken appreciated Daisuke’s effort.

And, as much as it disturbed Ken to admit it, even to only himself, Daisuke was not the only one hurting. It also hurt Ken to see Daisuke this way. Seeing him this confused, this frustrated, this wounded. This overwhelmed.

It hurt almost as much as loosing Wormmon had hurt Ken. Maybe even more than loosing Wormmon had hurt Ken. And that thought terrified the ex-Kaiser.

So Ken refused to think about it. It wouldn’t do to dwell.

After all, nothing had ever been solved with hesitation.

Ken sighed. “Daisuke…” he began carefully, his voice soft, pleading. Daisuke was weak against Ken’s pain. He always had been. And Ken fully expected that the younger man would fold yet again when he realized the damage he was doing.

But this time, Daisuke did not respond, refusing to even turn back around. So instead, Ken, too, turned away from his lover. He cast a long look around their apartment, remembering how sure Daisuke had been that this would make a perfect home for the two of them, remembering how unsure he’d been about buying an apartment when they could have just as easily continued renting one without difficulty.

Remembering how strangely happy it had made him that first time Daisuke had welcomed him home, to their home. He had not expected that. Finally Ken asked, “What do you think I’m planning on doing?”

Surely not even Daisuke would require him to actually say it out loud. Doing so would just be so damned unnecessary. So pointless. The facts were the facts. What had happened, had happened. There was no way to change the past. No do-over. No keeping Daisuke from learning the truth.

It was done.

If Ken had only had to worry about Ken, it wouldn’t be an issue. But that wasn’t how this worked. At least, not any more. Because, as much as it might frustrate Ken to admit it, he had ceased being “just” Ken more than fifteen years earlier. And nothing he could say or do or _wish_ could change that.

Ken was not even sure that if, given the chance to start again, he would.

Their options were simple. Ken could confess. He would be tried, convicted of multiple murders, and then spend years in solitary confinement before being put to death.

After all, Japanese law was pretty cut and dry when it came to serial homicide.

Or, Ken could continue to stonewall the police. He could continue to live his life with Daisuke, and possibly, eventually, move somewhere else, start over, and try again. 

Maybe the third time really would be the charm.

Of course that would mean watching the truth of what he had done slowly gnaw away at Daisuke, eating him alive from the inside out, extinguishing his light while destroying everything that made him wonderful and good.

So… Not really an option either.

Which meant that there was really only one option left. And while Ken knew that Daisuke would not like it, he hoped Daisuke would at least be able to forgive him for it.

Eventually, anyway.

Ken would die. By his own hand, on his own terms, and at his own time. He would not sit calmly while others passed judgment on him, called him monster, decreed him something less than human. Nor would he drag Daisuke down into the dark depths of his own personal oblivion.

No. It only made sense that he would die. And if Daisuke, anyone, misjudged his actions as some kind of atonement, then so much the better.

Ken was not frightened of death. At least, not his own. He never had been. Even if it had not been the only _reasonable_ option left from the moment Daisuke had come bursting out into the NPA lobby, his eyes wide with the horror of the truth he had discovered, Ken knew, somehow, he’d end up right back in the same situation again, probably sooner rather than later. Ken had always seen his life’s trajectory clearly. He accepted it. He had even embraced it.

Now all he had to do was convince Daisuke to do the same.

When Ken finally worked up the courage to glance back over his shoulder he saw that Daisuke had turned around again and was staring at him with raw, open agony. He offered the younger man a small smile, shaking his head slightly in the hopes of warding off any potential arguments. Not surprisingly, Daisuke wasn’t looking to cooperate.

“Don’t,” Daisuke began, unable to control the tremor of fear in his voice, “Don’t even joke about that. It’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Ken sighed before continuing, “You have to think about this realistically.”

Daisuke instantly recognized the distant, pedantic tone that Ken always took with him when he thought that Daisuke was being particularly dense. Usually it left Daisuke feeling vaguely idiotic. Today it incensed him.

“I am thinking realistically,” he insisted, slapping his knife on the kitchen countertop with frustration, “ _Realistically_ there has to be some other option! You have to think about this!”

Ken only shook his head in the negative again, reaching over to pick up a piece of zucchini and bringing it to his nose for a curious sniff before tossing it back into the pile with a frown.

“Ken—“ Daisuke began, only to have the man in question cut him off with nothing more than a single raised finger.

“I _have_ thought about it,” Ken assured Daisuke, continuing, “I think you know that I’ve thought about it for longer than you’d probably like to admit.” Something about the way Daisuke growled at that last bit told Ken he had touched a delicate nerve. Still, it did not stop him from driving home his point. “I think we both know it would be for the best,” the dark haired man softly whispered.

Daisuke wanted to be sick. He could feel his stomach churning and spasming, but not having eaten all day, there was little it could do besides threaten and complain. Daisuke took several deep breaths, focusing on calming his nerves, understanding instinctively that any emotion-based plea he might make would fall on deaf ears. No. Daisuke had to be logical about this. It was the only way Ken would condescend to listening.

So instead, Daisuke stopped and thought. He thought and thought and thought, running over scenarios in his mind, trying various rationales, allowing the near-perfect Ken within his head his best rebuttal, debating each point to its completion, looking for a way out. It was only after Daisuke was sure that he had thought of everything, every argument and every counter-argument, every possible option that they had open to them, that he took the eggplant from where it lay on his cutting board and, after giving it a long, hard stare, walked over and threw it in the combustibles bin.

At Ken’s vaguely inquisitive look, Daisuke explained simply, “I hate eggplant.”

Despite himself, Ken smiled. Wasting perfectly good food was such an un-Daisuke-like thing to do, and yet, finishing such a long silence with so absurd an act _was_ so very like Daisuke. Ken found it strangely thrilling.

“Oh?” Ken heard himself question, “I never knew.” Daisuke only shrugged in response, unable to completely restrain the vaguely defensive gesture. “Did you know that I hate zucchini?” Ken could not help but ask. Daisuke did not answer, but instead used both hands to scrape together the pile of zucchini quarters before walking over and dumping them in the bin on top of the eggplant.

“Tut-tut,” Ken chided sarcastically, “So wasteful. Whatever will we eat?” Ken’s tone almost seemed to amuse Daisuke. The red-head never ceased to fascinate.

“I guess I’m not very hungry,” Daisuke admitted, “You?” Ken shook his head in response. “Good.” Daisuke answered. He picked up the cutting board, dumping the carrots into the combustibles bin with the eggplant and the zucchini before setting both it and his knives on the edge of the kitchen sink.

It _was_ wasteful, and part of Daisuke frowned at the idea. Still, Daisuke thought, he couldn’t really bring himself to cook anything even resembling a last meal in the kitchen in which he’d spent so many of his nights happily working.

It wouldn’t be right.

Because Daisuke had already come to a decision. A decision he found himself strangely at peace with. A decision he did not intend to share with anyone, least of all, Ken. Because Daisuke knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if the ex-Kaiser had even the slightest inkling of what he was considering, all hell would break loose and somehow, some way, Ken would find a way to keep him from doing what he knew needed to be done.

And Daisuke wasn’t about to let that happen.

Instead, he opened the freezer, and, pulling out a plain brown paper bag stamped with YANAKA COFFEE, held it up in Ken’s direction, suggesting only, “Coffee?”

Ken couldn’t have known how his gentle smile only further convinced the younger man of the rightness of his plan.


	7. Epilogue - Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No one’s actually crazy enough to think this is mine, right? Right!?

**JUNE**

Yamato had always hated the muggy humidity of summer in Tokyo. Even sitting in an air-conditioned car like he was now, the sticky heat seemed almost poised to attack, barely held at bay by the falsely chilled air struggling out of the idling car’s vents. Yamato told himself that it was the humidity that had left him feeling simultaneously both light-headed and like his insides had been weighted down with hot, molten lead. Yeah. It was the humidity, not the unenviable clusterfuck that his life had become.

“You need a minute?”

Yamato glanced over at Minamoto. The younger officer had invited himself into the car the moment that Yamato had driven up. Yamato could see two other members of the task force milling about in the light near the front entrance of the apartment building, but so far, neither had approached. There were groups of bystanders here and there, but most were staying far back from the officers and none were on the floor that Yamato knew held Daisuke and Ken’s unit.

Yamato probably had Minamoto to thank for that. The man could be strangely intimidating when he wished.

“No, wait,” Yamato requested when Minamoto reached for the car door handle. Minamoto turned toward him expectantly.

“I need you to walk me through it one more time,” the blond man requested, falling back on police procedure in a bid to keep his mind from spinning out of control. He opted not to notice the look of pity that flashed through Minamoto’s eyes.

“Both men were seen entering the apartment building just before 11:00 AM. Then there was no movement until just after 22:10, when Ando and Iseki noted the lights came on.”  Yamato nodded to show that he was following even as he continued to watch for movement on Daisuke and Ken’s level.

Minamoto continued, “Ando and Iseki were relieved at 2357 by Kimio and Fukada and it was just when they were about to leave towards the rail station that they noticed the disturbance.”

“Motomiya Daisuke appeared to be throwing potted plants off of his balcony.” Yamato broke in. Minamoto nodded.

“They went back to the car. Kimio and Fukada had also noticed the disturbance and had already radioed it in. That’s when dispatch called me,” Minamoto explained. At Yamato’s strange look, he clarified, “I know the girl who works the graveyard shift. I had asked her to let me know if anything strange came across.”

Yamato nodded. Friends in the right places could make or break a detective, especially when it came to getting to the “good” cases first. Yamato found himself strangely proud of the younger officer’s initiative and forethought. Yamato was certain that Minamoto was going to go somewhere, make a name for himself, unlike some of the other taskforce members.

“So who approached the apartment first?” Yamato asked.

“Ando,” Minamoto answered, “Followed by Iseki. They knocked, pounded Iseki says, on the door, and there was no answer.  But they could still hear the pots breaking and were worried someone might get hurt, so Ando says he kicked down the door.”

Yamato watched as white crime scene investigation van pulled up next to the apartment building. He would need to get out there and take control of the scene soon or risk getting locked out of his own investigation.

“When they got into the apartment they did not see Ichijouji, but they could see Motomiya on the balcony. Ando says that by the time they got in there, he was already up on the plant stand, leaning over the rail. They called out to him but…” Minamoto trailed off. There was no point going into explicit detail when they both already knew the end result.

“We do have one other issue,” Minamoto hedged.  Yamato nodded for him to continue.

“Ando and Iseki are clear on the idea that he jumped, but there was a witness, a young woman, who is insisting that he was startled and he slipped.

Yamato felt like he had been kicked in the gut. It was hard enough, thinking Daisuke had intentionally chosen to jump off of his balcony, something Yamato was willing to believe, if only because of the depth of Daisuke’s bond with Ken.

 But the thought that maybe it had been an accident, that maybe it could have been prevented if someone else, if he, had been the officer to go into that apartment tonight horrified Yamato. He didn’t want to even consider it.

Because, if it were true, Yamato would never be able to look any of the other Digi-destined in their faces again. He did not how much more he could handle losing.

“Did Fukuda or Kimio see anything,” he heard himself ask, his voice dry.

Minamoto frowned.  “They say he jumped,” he admitted before acknowledging, “Though it would be hard to tell from their stakeout position.” Yamato nodded.

“And Ichijouji?” he finally asked.

“Deceased,” Minamoto stated simply.

“Suicide?” Yamato assumed, but the only answer he got was Minamoto’s strained silence. Yamato turned to study the other officer, stricken by what he saw there.

“Asphyxiation, most likely,” Minamoto finally admitted, “Through we won’t know for certain until after the autopsy. “

“Daisuke wouldn’t—“ Yamato began before stopping himself. If there was one thing he had learned early in his career, it was never to assume that there was anything humans were incapable of doing, if given the correct incentives. “I see,” was all he said instead. It was all that there was that could be said.

Yamato reached up, turning off the car’s engine even as he opened his door, letting the summer air come rushing in to surround him, heavy and wet.  He told himself that it was just the humidity that was what was sucking his breath away. Not Daisuke. Not Ichijouji. Nothing so petty as the personal.

Yamato did not have time for the personal. He did not have the energy. Not when there was work that needed to be done.

 And there was always work that need to be done.

_God_ , Yamato thought, unable to stop himself from sighing even has he made his way over to the apartment complex, or, more precisely, the sheet covered body lying nearby, _I really hate summer in Tokyo_.

\-------------------  
A/N: The End! Hope you enjoyed!


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